


Marked

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Dean Winchester - Freeform, Dom/sub, F/M, Feelsy Feels and Kinky Sex, I could spent an actual century tagging all the kinds of sex that happen here omg, Mark of Cain, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-01-01 04:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12148473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Smutty smutty d/s smut, featuring Dean circa the Mark of Cain.





	1. One

I’d like to say he caught my eye, but he didn’t, not at first. My head was elsewhere all night. It was his drink I noticed. Shittiest whiskey in the house, one glass after another. It was almost closing time when I looked at him, really looked, all set to cut him off, and I realized how distracted I must’ve been not to notice that face. 

Fuck, he was beautiful. Pouty lips, cheekbones like a motherfucker, James Dean kinda beautiful...the kind of beautiful that doesn't wander into a Kansas roadhouse too often. And he was staring over the rim of his glass, staring with a laser-sharp intensity that made me wonder exactly how much the guy could drink. By my calculations, he should’ve been falling off the stool at the rate he’d been going.

“Evening, gorgeous.” 

Somehow he wasn’t slurring. His voice was deep and deliciously rough, and I was hooked. 

“Evening,” I said. I put down the glass I'd been polishing and set both hands on the bar, giving him my full attention. 

“Been wondering,” he continued. “What’s got you so distracted tonight?” His smile didn't reach his eyes. 

“Believe it or not, pouring drinks is not the most mentally stimulating job in the world.” 

“So...you’re saying you need stimulation,” he smirked. 

I raised an eyebrow. I probably should've left it at that, turned away, cut him off, zombied through the rest of the night. That would've been the smart thing to do. 

“If you think you’re up to the challenge, I'm done in an hour.” 

I never said I was a smart woman. 

 

\------

 

The bruising force of his lips made my nerve endings sing. It had been too long since somebody kissed me like this, hungry and sure. There had been a few Match.com dates and Tinder hookups in the months since my divorce. Nothing like this, though. It was all “nice guys” who thought paying for Olive Garden entitled them to sex, or cocky former frat bros who turned out to be entirely too insipid once the lights went off. 

Dean was different. Dean kissed me like he was going to devour me. Dean got impatient as we walked through the parking lot, shoved me up against the door of his crappy motel room and bit a tingling trail down my neck, one hand tugging just a little too hard at my hair, and by the time we made it inside I was breathless and aching for him. 

Something dirty and dangerous was unfurling in my body, growing stronger with every nip of his teeth. I'd forgotten what this could feel like. 

He almost ripped my shirt in his haste to get it off, and I was just as desperate. I stepped back as he pulled at his belt, watched the muscles of his shoulders shifting under freckled skin as he leaned down to tug his jeans off, watched his thick, flushed cock twitch as he looked at me. I needed to taste him. 

I knelt in front of him and looked up. He was staring down, pupils blown, biting at his lower lip. I clasped my hands behind my back deliberately and waited. His breath hitched when he realized what I wanted, his eyes widening with surprise, and then his expression went dark, his lip curling back in a snarl. 

“You sure?” he asked hoarsely. I wasn’t. I wasn’t sure any of this was a good idea. As a matter of fact, I was pretty damn sure that surrendering control to a stranger in a crappy hotel room was a fucking terrible idea. But I nodded and licked my lips, and he stepped forward. One hand tangled in my hair. The other held his cock, brushing the swollen head over my lower lip. He slid into my mouth slowly, inch by inch, heavy and velvet-smooth and hot. I swallowed around him and opened the back of my throat, letting my jaw relax. He ran a thumb over the corner of my mouth, where my lips were stretched almost painfully around him. 

“Good girl,” he growled. My eyes fluttered closed and I moaned at the words, feeling the warmth of that simple phrase run through my veins. He slid his cock out and then in again, then faster, his hands gripping at my hair. It was all I could do to keep myself pliant and still. 

“Such a good girl,” he breathed. “Your mouth looks so good, all stretched around my cock.” I whimpered, and it came out choked and desperate. “Being such a good girl for me. You like this? Letting me fuck your pretty little mouth? Answer me.” 

He pulled away, held himself barely an inch away from my spit-slippery lips. 

“Yes,” I groaned. “Yes, I like it.” 

“Tell me how wet you are,” he said. There was something strained in his expression. He was holding back. I wanted him to let go, wanted to make him lose control. 

“So wet for you,” I breathed. “Please, sir, I want you to fuck me.” 

There it was. His gaze went wild, animalistic, and he let out his breath in a long hiss. 

“Get on the bed,” he snapped. “Hands over your head.” I scrambled to obey. 

He straddled my hips, trailing his fingers gently over my naked skin. Without warning, he pinched at a nipple,  _ hard _ . I cried out wordlessly and my body arched off the bed, and my hands automatically flew down to cover myself. 

“No,” he said firmly. One hand grasped my wrists and held them over my head, pinned to the bed. The other hand found my nipple again and rolled it insistently between his fingers. A low whine escaped my lips, but it turned into a moan when he dipped his head and swirled his tongue over the stiff little bud. 

“Please,” I cried again. I was past caring about how wanton my voice sounded, how dangerous this was, how dangerous  _ he  _ was, and all I could feel was the throbbing heat of my clit and the delicious pressure of his fingers holding me down. 

He was breathing heavily as he hooked my leg over his shoulder, looking as wrecked as I felt. He lined up, rubbed the head of his cock against my pussy, groaning when he felt the slick warmth there. He was shaking with the effort of keeping himself under control. 

“If I hurt you,” he said hoarsely, “tell me to stop.”

“Please hurt me,” I whispered. That was all it took. He let out a strangled moan and snapped his hips forward, and the sudden stretch, the incredible fullness, made the edges of my vision spark and crackle.

He wasn’t holding back any more. He slammed into me with a force that sent my eyes rolling back in my head, each thrust perfectly angled to hit my g-spot. And he made it  _ hurt.  _ His fingernails dug into my arms, scratched angry red welts into my back, bit into the flesh of my ass as he grabbed my hips. His teeth nipped into my neck, biting until the skin there was hot and oversensitive. It was heaven. 

I caught a glimpse of his face, when he pulled out long enough to flip me onto my stomach. He was  _ gone.  _ His eyes were glazed over. His jaw was clenched, and his teeth were bared, and every inch of his skin was glistening with sweat. 

“Harder,” I begged. He fucked me mercilessly, until the bedsprings creaked and the headboard thudded against the wall. I could hear myself as if from a distance, begging for more, screaming his name and a broken string of curses, and he didn't let up until I was writhing, sobbing, completely lost. 

Every muscle in my body tensed and clenched, and I slammed back against him as my orgasm ripped through me. Wave after wave of white-hot pleasure shuddered through my skin. I could barely hold on to consciousness as he shook through his own release. 

I collapsed, after, completely boneless and sated, my head spinning and my skin on fire. When I came to, he was handing me a warm washcloth and a cold glass of water. 

He looked amazed, almost. He looked happier, for damn sure, and he looked lighter, like he’d just put down some heavy horrible burden. The person who helped me clean up and crawled into bed with me was not the same person who’d brought me here. 

“I needed that,” he admitted breathlessly. The smile reached his eyes now. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, the nervous way he licked at his lower lip. 

“I did too,” I said softly. 

 

\------

 

I had marks the next day. A flurry of bites covered my neck. A deep red-purple bruise pulsed just above my heart. I could see his fingerprints on my forearm. I could feel him, a dull ache between my legs where he’d been. I pressed my fingers against one of the marks in the mirror, savoring the little throb of pain. I knew I should cover them for work. I didn't want to. I felt more alive than I had in months. 

My phone buzzed from the nightstand. 

_ Let’s do that again sometime.  _

My swollen lips tingled, remembering the way he tasted. 

_ Yes _ . 

_ Yes, what? _

Need flickered like lightning through my body. 

_ Yes, sir _ . 

_ Good girl. I'll be in touch.  _


	2. Part 2

_ Tonight. Same place, room 105.  _

_ Yes, sir. I’ll be done by 12.  _

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about him. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't touched those beautiful marks he’d left on my skin every day, until they faded. 

Somewhere along the line, somewhere in the last few shitty years, I’d gone numb and closed-off. I'd spent so long in sepia tones that I'd forgotten what Technicolor could feel like: emerald eyes, indigo bruises, scarlet scratches down my back. There was a whole raw rainbow of colors sparkling through my synapses again. 

Maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing in the world, but I’ll take a good, hard, skull-rattling fuck over psychotherapy any day. 

\------

“We should talk about this,” Dean said gruffly. The bedsprings creaked when he sat down next to me. He was scraping absentmindedly at the label of the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Traffic light system,” I said. “Hard limits are anything involving bodily excretions.” The corner of his lips quirked up in a tiny smile, and he nodded. I could see him trying to figure out what to say next. 

“Look, I don’t-” he started, but I interrupted him. 

“Dean, I don’t have any illusions about what this is,” I said. I could feel the stubborn set of my chin, what my ex always called my bulldozer face. “You’re the same kinda mess that I am. I need this. You do too. Let’s not overthink it.” 

“I have a tendency to…” he started, and he frowned down at the floor as he picked his words. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to lose control.” He was rubbing his forearm, massaging his thumb against a strange mark I hadn't noticed before; it looked like a brand. 

“Have you ever...lost control?” I asked. I gestured at the bed. 

He shook his head. “No, not like that. Nothing like that. I just- I haven't really been myself lately.” He took a long gulp of his beer and rolled the bottle between his hands.

Cryptic, but honest. 

“I trust you,” I said simply. It wasn’t entirely a lie. 

I didn’t know him enough to be sure of it, logically, but I also couldn’t explain away the feeling in my gut. I’d been bartending at various shitholes around the Midwest for ten years; I learned real quick how to spot the bad ones. 

“I’m not sure I trust myself with you,” he said. 

“I promise I'll tell you if you cross a line.” 

He gave me a long, hard look, and finally nodded. 

“Well, then,” he said. “Stand up. Let me see you.” 

There was a purr in his voice, now. My pulse quickened. I stood, and let him look. Something in his posture shifted as he relaxed into the role, and I could see the tension draining from his shoulders. He licked his lips. A little shiver of anticipation ran through me. 

“Strip,” he directed. “Slowly.” 

That _ voice _ . 

I started with my t-shirt, watching his face as I slid it over my head and tossed it aside. I toed off my shoes, then undid the button of my jeans and shimmied out of them. His eyes followed each movement, and when I was done he looked up at me through those long eyelashes and licked his lips again, slow and sinful. 

“Keep going,” he said. 

I unhooked my bra and let it drop, straightening my shoulders as his eyes flicked down to my breasts. Finally, I slipped my panties down and stepped out of them. 

His lips curled into a predatory smile as he watched me. He was silent for a long moment, tilting his head, staring so intently that it felt like he wanted to memorize my body. I felt his gaze like a physical force. I waited. 

He stood up slowly and stepped toward me, but he didn’t touch me, and he stopped at arm’s length. My heart was pounding. The stillness, the silence...the air between us felt heavy and electric. He walked a full circle around me, examining me from every angle, and then another half-circle, so that he was standing right behind me. I didn’t turn around, but he was so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath. I wanted his hands, his mouth, anything, instead of the cool air on my exposed skin. 

“I think,” he whispered, and the little puff of air on my neck sent goosebumps down my arms, “I want to take things slow. I think we may have rushed things, last time. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I want to...get to know you. Does that sound good?” 

“Yes.”  _ God, yes.  _

He moved closer, his body still not touching mine, and his lips brushed against my earlobe when he whispered, “Don't move. And don’t come til I tell you to.” 

“Yes, sir,” I said meekly. I closed my eyes, trying to control my breathing. 

He pushed my hair to one side and pressed a delicate kiss to the nape of my neck. Chills ran up my spine. 

“I want to know,” he said, and brushed his lips down an inch, butterfly-soft against my top vertebra. “When was the last time you touched yourself?” 

“Two nights ago,” I responded, my voice shaking. His lips moved to the right, across the top of my shoulder blade, leaving a trail of heat. 

“And what did you think about?” he asked. 

“You.” It was true. 

“Tell me.” 

“I thought about the way you held me down.” My breath hitched as he brushed his thumbs over each wrist, tracing my veins. 

“You had bruises here,” he said. I nodded. “I'll leave you some bruises tonight. Leave a reminder for you...something to touch, next time you're thinking about me.” 

I let a little whimper escape my lips and he laughed. I needed it, needed him to grip me until it hurt, and instead he was running his fingertips gently over the soft skin of my forearms, back and forth, feather-light.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“You want me to fuck you so hard you can feel it for days?” 

“Fuck, yes,” I breathed. “Want you to fuck me til I can’t take it any more, want you to make me scream…” His fingers ran up my arms. One hand caressed my collarbone, and the other dipped down to trace the curve of my breast. 

“I can do that,” he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. He ran his thumb in gentle circles around my nipple, and I bit my lip, feeling the skin respond to his touch. 

“I’ll be so good for you,” I promised, my voice going ragged. “I’ll be so good, let me show you, just want to make you feel good-  _ oh _ .” He pinched, hard, sending a quick surge of heat to my clit, and my entire body shuddered.  

“I know you will.” He did it again, pinching and rolling roughly. It wasn’t long before I was squirming at every touch, panting, desperate. His hand dipped lower, and he let his fingernails drag slightly as he ran them up and down my hipbone. 

“Please. I want-” 

“Be patient,” he said. His hand pressed slightly to the inside of my thigh, and I shifted my weight, spreading my legs a little. “Good girl.” One fingertip traced up my center, barely grazing the skin. I had to fight the urge to lean into his touch. He did it again, pressing harder, but nowhere near hard enough. 

“Remember,” he whispered. His tongue traced the shell of my ear. “Don’t come.” He slid two fingers inside me without any more warning, and the sudden stimulation to my touch-starved nerves made my knees buckle. 

“Oh,  _ god _ ,” I gasped. If his arm hadn’t tightened over my ribs I would’ve collapsed, and I gripped his forearm with both hands to try to steady myself. I melted back against his chest. His fingers curled into me ruthlessly, and my head fell back against his shoulder as the sensation almost overwhelmed me. 

“So wet for me,” he rasped. “Such a good girl, dripping and ready for me.” 

“Y-yours,” I stuttered, unable to focus on anything but the perfect friction between my legs.  

“Mine,” he snarled, and while his fingers worked my g-spot, he pressed the heel of his hand into my clit. I saw sparks. He pulled his hand away suddenly and I whimpered, pushing forward, but his arm against my chest held me still. 

“Please,” I whined. Instead of answering, he held his wet fingers to my mouth. I licked them clean, swirling my tongue over his rough knuckles, sucking greedily until I couldn’t taste myself on him any more. 

Dean guided me to the bed, and I sat at the foot of it, trying to catch my breath. He kneeled between my legs and pressed a kiss to the inside of one of my knees, then the other. His movements were delicate and torturously slow again. 

“I want you to tell me,” he said against my skin, his voice strained, “tell me if you want to take a step back, because-” 

“Green,” I said firmly. “Dean, please-” 

“Be patient,” he said again, and smirked. His eyes were shining with a wild sort of joy, and his cheeks were flushed. I could see his erection pressing against the front of his jeans. 

I let myself fall back on the bed as Dean began to lick and kiss his way up my thighs, teasing and deliberate. 

“I promised you marks, didn’t I?” he murmured. I managed a whine of agreement. He nipped at my skin, worrying it gently between his teeth, and then gave it a quick little suck. I hissed. He continued his path up my leg, pausing every inch or so, leaving a trail of red-purple bites. I was squirming by the time he reached my hip. Each spot where his mouth had been was throbbing, a near-identical pleasure-pain to the throb in my clit. I slid my fingers through his hair, trying to pull him closer, but he held me down gently and shook his head. I gripped the blanket instead, twisting the fabric in my hands. 

The first soft touch of his tongue made me arch off the bed. He was slow, careful, licking lightly on either side of my clit and then flicking it with his tongue, and I moaned, trying to rock my hips forward. He pressed down again, but repeated the pattern, harder and then harder again, increasing the intensity until I was writhing. 

“Dean, I can’t-  _ please _ ,” I cried out, and he stopped, rough hands pinning me to the bed. “Please, please, please, I need-” 

“You need to listen,” he snapped. I looked down at him and almost wished I hadn’t. His lips were swollen red and glistening, and he was smiling fiercely. He looked hard and hungry and powerful. 

He used his fingers, too, this time, his long calloused middle finger pressing rhythmically against my g-spot while he lapped at my clit with near-mechanical precision. Pleasure twisted and curled through my body, building into a perfect overwhelming pressure, and I practically sobbed when he pulled away, so close it almost hurt. 

His teeth scraped carefully, ever so carefully, over my clit, and then his tongue slid down to my entrance, pushing into me, and when he groaned I could feel the vibrations of it. He licked and he sucked and he set my entire body on fire, and as soon as my legs began to shake with the effort of holding back my orgasm, he was gone again. I rubbed myself against the bed and balled my hands into fists, fingernails digging into my palms, and spread my legs desperately. 

“Dean,” I begged, “Dean, I can’t, I need you, please!” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” he growled, and he was standing, finally pulling off his clothes. His chest was heaving and his pupils were tiny pinpricks. When he pulled off his jeans, his dick jumped up against his stomach, swollen and tantalizingly hard. With my ass still positioned at the very edge of the bed, he slipped his hands under my thighs and lifted, and I wrapped my legs around him, moaning at the first brush of his cock against my silky-wet cunt. He grabbed my ass with both hands, pulling me closer. 

I moaned when he thrust into me, a low, broken sound I barely recognized, and then I was begging again, a long nonsensical string of curses and pleas as he paused, buried completely inside me, hips pressing against mine. 

“You can come,” he said, between gritted teeth, and finally began to fuck me with a savage, relentless rhythm. It was too much, too much sensation after the agony of waiting, and the fireworks I’d been holding back for so long ripped through me, a flood of white-hot sparks coursing up my spine. It felt like days, or maybe just seconds, before Dean cried out and slammed into me one more time. His cock pulsed inside me as he came, and I was so sensitive it was enough to send one last little shudder of electricity through me. 

He let himself sink to the ground, still tangled awkwardly in my legs, until he could kneel, and he rested his head on my thigh in an oddly intimate way. He was panting. 

“Okay?” I asked weakly. I could barely open my eyes. He nodded, though, stubble scraping against my skin. He started running his hands over me as if he wanted to make sure I was still there, petting and stroking, soothing the angry red imprints of his teeth with his thumb. He whispered something that I felt more than heard, and then repeated it louder without looking at me. 

“Thank you.” 

\-----

He was gone by morning. 

I woke up alone and aching in the cold motel room. When I stared at my reflection, I saw dark circles, pale skin, and violently red lips, still swollen. When I looked down, I saw dappled bruises, a kaleidoscopic sprawl of mottled purples and blues. 

I heard the echo of his voice:  _ thank you. _


	3. Drabble

I was half-asleep when the message came through. 

_ Do you have any idea what you look like when you’re getting fucked?  _

Dean. Of course it was Dean. My phone buzzed again before I could think of a reply. 

_ You look filthier than porn, I swear. The way your eyes roll back in your head when I start fucking your tight little cunt.  _

Heat was blossoming over my skin, and I let my hand slip between my legs to circle over my clit. 

_ You like watching what you do to me? _

_ You know I do. You look so good begging for my dick. Are you touching yourself?  _

_ Yes.  _

_ Stop. I’m the only one who gets to make you come.  _

I gritted my teeth. My pussy throbbed when I pulled my fingers away, but I did it, imagining the way he’d smile if he could see me. 

_ Yes, sir.  _

_ Good girl. I’m touching myself, though. I’m so fucking hard thinking about you. If you were here I’d have you on all fours, so I could pull your hair while I fuck you.  _

I choked back a little groan, twisting in the sheets. I imagined him with one strong hand wrapped around his cock, his dark eyes, the way his mouth would go slack when he was close. 

_ Want you to make me scream.  _

_ I’m going to make you watch while I fuck you. Going to bend you over the sink and you’re going to watch in the mirror while I make you scream.  _

_ Anything you want.  _

Silence for a minute. I waited, squeezing my thighs together, trying to ignore the images running through my head. When the phone buzzed again, it was a picture: Dean’s hand curled against his bare skin, the little trail of hair that ran down his lower belly, splattered with thick creamy wetness.  

_ I want you to wear a skirt without panties to work on Saturday. I don’t want you to touch yourself until then. Can you do that?  _

_ Yes.  _

_ Good. See you Saturday.  _


	4. Part 3

I’d thought about disobeying Dean. I could wear panties and then slip them off before I went to the motel. Somehow, though, he would know. Those green eyes seemed to see me entirely too well.

I slipped my skirt on over bare skin, knowing I’d be wet all night, thinking about my secret. 

Thinking about him sent a rush through my entire body, a flood of  _ need _ and  _ want _ , visceral memories, as if the pleasure-pain of him was etched all over my skin. I looked in the mirror, trying to see myself the way he would. My cheeks were flushed and my hand shook when I pushed my hair back. 

_ I look like a junkie.  _

My heart was racing. My skin was on fire. 

_ Feel like one, too. _

_ Shit.  _

\-----

Work was torturously slow. I waited for a text with the room number, checking my phone surreptitiously. Seven...eight...nine o’clock and nothing. It shouldn’t have affected me the way it did, but my stomach was swooping dangerously at the idea of not seeing him. 

And then I looked down the bar, and he was  _ there _ , sitting right at the end, watching me with all the laser-focus of a predator on the hunt. I’m surprised I didn’t drop the drink I was holding. My body went hot and cold, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. 

He must’ve known what he was doing to me, because he smiled, this slow satisfied smirk of a smile playing over those gorgeous lips. A little shiver ran down my spine. I set down the drink in my hand, pushing it toward the customer without a second glance, and walked toward him. With each step, I felt a quick  _ swish _ of air over my bare skin. 

“Hey,” I breathed. I walked around the end of the bar and leaned against it. He looked me up and down, licking his lower lip, and smiled. 

“You did it, didn’t you?” he said. “Did what I asked?” 

I nodded silently. 

“And it’s driving you crazy, isn’t it?” he asked, with a low chuckle.

“Yeah,” I admitted. 

He leaned in close, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Been waiting for me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good girl.” It was a _ growl _ , possessive and approving, and the vibrations of it settled right between my legs. “So, sweetheart, you have what...three more hours? You get a break at some point?” 

“Yeah, a short one. Probably in an hour or two. Since it’s slow, maybe less.” 

Dean nodded. “I guess I’ll have a beer, then.” 

“You’re just...going to sit?” I blurted out. 

“You expect me to just bend you over the bar and fuck you right now?” he asked, and that too-intense predator stare was back. “Is that what you want?” 

“No, I just-” I swallowed. 

I didn’t know what, exactly, I’d expected, but having him here, so close, and being unable to have him? I wasn’t sure I could stand three hours of that. 

“If you’re sure,” he said, light and teasing again. “Well, you just go ahead and do your job, darlin’, and I’ll be here imagining you with your skirt up and your legs spread…” He raised an eyebrow and smiled, pointedly looking from me to the bar and back again, and I let out a strangled hiss of air. 

“Dammit, Dean,” I whispered, and turned on my heel before he could say anything that would make me completely lose my cool. 

“I’ll take a PBR,” he drawled to my retreating back. 

I could feel the force of his stare as I walked away. It sent goosebumps up my arms. I took a deep breath as I grabbed his beer, trying to steel myself, but the way my body was responding to him was just overwhelming. It was hard to focus on anything with his words echoing in my ears and that image running through my head. 

He didn’t say anything when I handed him the bottle, thank fuck, just gave me a look that made me feel feverish all over again. 

So he sat, and he drank, and for a while I tried to pretend that everything was normal. I'd catch his eye, though, from time to time, because it was near impossible not to stare at him. Each time our eyes met, I was acutely aware of the ache between my legs. 

I saw Emily bring him another, at one point. I could see her tilting her head like she wanted to flirt, but Dean’s eyes found me, watching intently, ignoring her completely.

Another half hour passed, slow and dreamlike. It was bizarre, having Dean there like just another customer. He’d been my dirty little secret, a daydream, an entirely separate part of my life, and now he was sitting there in the flesh watching me work. 

“Guy down at the end, he a friend of yours?” Emily asked.  

“You could say that,” I answered, busying myself wiping a spill. 

“Easy on the eyes,” she said approvingly. “He wants another. Asked if you could get it for him, too.” 

I grabbed a PBR and tried to focus on anything but his cocky smile as I walked over. 

“C’mere,” he said, when I set the drink down in front of him. I walked around the end of the bar meekly and stood in front of him, watching the way his lips wrapped around the bottle and the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He set the beer down, deliberate and slow, and wrapped a hand around my wrist. I could feel my pulse pounding. 

“Dean, I should-” I said quietly, but he shook his head. 

“You should let me fuck you now,” he said. My mouth dropped open wordlessly. “Don’t pretend like you don’t want me to,” he continued, eyes sparkling. “I know you must be fucking  _ soaked _ , under that tight little skirt. Been watching you all night. Trying to press your thighs together, like that’ll help…” 

I couldn’t deny it. 

He tugged at my wrist, pulling me closer, and I stumbled forward. “Let me fuck you,” he whispered, breath hot on my ear, and his fingers trailed down to my hip. His thumb slipped under the hem of my shirt and stroked gently at my overheated skin. “Can’t stop thinking about you, how good you’re going to feel...meet me in the bathroom.” 

I hesitated, trying to hold on to some kind of logic, but all I could feel was the heat pulsing through my cunt. I was clenching down around nothing, achingly empty, and the closeness of him was fucking intoxicating. I nodded. 

He released me abruptly, spinning around on his stool, and walked away. 

I went back behind the bar and made a beeline for Emily. 

“I’m gonna take my fifteen now,” I squeaked. 

I didn’t stick around to wait for her response, but I could her bemused “Okayyy” behind me as I untied my apron and dropped it carelessly on the counter. 

He was on me the second the lock clicked into place, shoving me against the door, kissing me so fiercely I could barely breathe. It was all I could do to cling to him, afraid I’d lose my balance if I let go. For a moment his mouth was the only thing I could feel. Everything else faded, until it was just Dean, sucking and nibbling at my lips, parting them insistently with his tongue, hot and desperate. Then he rocked his hips forward so I could feel how hard he was. 

“God, Dean, I need-” 

“Fuck, no idea what you do to me, watching you out there was just- come  _ here _ .” He slid both hands down to cup my ass, then down to the backs of my thighs, and lifted me easily. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he carried me over to the sink, setting me down on the edge of it, but holding up one of my knees so that my leg was still hooked around him. He was holding me up in a way that meant I wouldn’t be able to move without falling, so I was completely at his mercy, clinging tight with my arms around his neck.

Thank god, he wasn’t in the mood for more teasing. He ran one hand up my thigh and slipped one finger inside me, and it was goddamn near impossible to stay silent, but I managed, burying my face in the curve of his neck and gritting my teeth. 

“You really did wait for me, huh?” Dean said. His voice was strained and hoarse. I nodded against his shirt, not trusting myself to speak. “Jesus, sweetheart, you’ve been so good for me, gonna make it up to you, just-” He moved, finally, twisting his finger and adding a second, and the sweet slippery drag of it pulled a rough groan from my throat. I arched against him, clenching around his fingers.

He pulled his hand away without warning and I whined, but he was already grasping me again to tug me away from the sink and spin me around roughly, so that I was facing the mirror. 

“Look at yourself,” Dean whispered in my ear. “Look how fuckin’ gorgeous you are. I told you, I want you to watch.” 

It was hard to tear my gaze away from his dark-eyed reflection, the way his tongue was just slightly visible behind his parted lips, but as always, it was impossible to disobey. 

My lips were puffy from his kisses and my cheeks were brightly flushed. My chest was heaving. I looked  _ wrecked _ , just as dazed and desperate as I felt.  

His hand was splayed over my stomach, holding me still, and I watched as his fingers dipped down and pulled up the hem of my skirt, lifting the fabric slowly to expose my pussy. I heard his breath hitch at the sight. He pressed closer, grinding his dick against my ass. Finally, he was touching me again, gently stroking my swollen clit with the tip of his index finger. My eyes started to flutter closed at the sensation. 

“Watch,” he commanded. He thrust his fingers inside me again as he said it, and I saw my mouth fall open in the mirror. When he pulled his hand away, I could see his knuckles glistening. He ran his fingers over my clit again, wet and slick now, rubbing in perfect little circles that sent fireworks exploding through my nerve endings.  

I was making incomprehensible little whimpers, and I watched myself strain against his arm, twisting and rubbing against him. He sped up his tiny, careful movement and I felt a rush of pressure gathering in my core. My knees went weak and rubbery. I grasped at his forearms for support, and his free hand met mine, lacing our fingers together and holding me close.

“More,” I gasped, “Please!” 

That single word seemed to flip a switch in him. His eyes darkened and his lip pulled back in a snarl, and he was  _ gone _ . I’d seen it enough, now, to know what it meant; some primal instinct had taken over, something fierce and dangerous, and it terrified me just as much as it excited me. 

He let me go, and I saw him pull at his belt. I gripped the sink and spread my legs for him. 

The first slow push against my entrance made me arch my back, trying to press back against him, but he paused with only the head of his cock inside me. 

“Don’t move,” he rasped, and he tangled one hand in my hair, tugging sharply, and wrapped the other hand around my neck. “Look at yourself. Look how fucking filthy you look.” 

And fuck, he was right. My mouth was swollen and slack as I gasped for breath, and my eyes were wide and wild, but more than anything, it was the way he was holding me; I looked like I was  _ his _ , like those hands belonged on me, keeping me close. 

“Dean,” I choked out, “need you, please-” My mouth dropped open in a perfect red O as he bottomed out in one easy stroke.

“Look so good,” he breathed out, “begging for my cock.” He took the hand that had been on my hair and used it to tug my skirt farther up, baring my ass as he slid out, almost all the way, before slamming back into me. “Such a perfect little cunt, all wet and ready for me, wish you could see how you look stretched around my dick…” 

I couldn’t manage a response, just a long, wanton moan as I tried to hold myself upright. Each thrust made my arms shake with the effort of bracing myself against the sink. 

“Fucking  _ dripping _ for me, Jesus, never felt anything like it-” 

Every movement had me trembling with pleasure. His hand tightened around my throat. The lack of oxygen was making my vision go fuzzy at the edges, tunneling in, narrowing my world down to the grip of his fingers and the slapping sound of skin against skin. He was still talking, a long stream of filthy words that didn’t seem to be making sense any more. 

Tighter, and I couldn’t breathe. I saw myself as if from a distance, the obscene shape of my mouth and the redness in my cheeks, and then my eyes rolled back helplessly and everything started to go dark. 

Without warning, he pulled his hand away from my neck, and with the rush of oxygen, every sensation was magnified a hundredfold. I came instantaneously, hard and fast and overwhelming, convulsing around him so intensely it almost hurt, an endless exquisite white-out like nothing I’d ever experienced before. I could hear him sobbing my name as he shuddered through his own orgasm, and I wondered hazily how loud I’d been screaming. 

For a long, suspended second, all I could hear was my heartbeat and his ragged breathing. 

“‘S okay, baby, I got you,” he mumbled, and strong arms wrapped around me, holding me up. He nuzzled the back of my neck, kissing the sensitive skin below my hairline. 

He was still holding me carefully when I managed to open my eyes. His smile made my stomach flip. 

“Dean, that was…” I couldn’t find the words, but he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. He kissed my earlobe. My entire body was buzzing. 

“How long have we- shit,” I muttered, reality setting in. I’d all but forgotten where we were. 

“I should go,” he mumbled. “Let you, um, get back to work.” I almost laughed at the thought. I still couldn’t think straight, and strands of hair were sticking to my sweat-damp skin, and I looked just as thoroughly fucked as I felt. 

“Gonna need a second,” I admitted. He smirked. 

When he stepped back, his cock slipped from between my legs, and I whimpered at the emptiness. My back felt cold where he’d been pressed against me. He fumbled with his belt, and I tugged my skirt back into place, smoothing it down over my thighs. 

“Here, this one’s yours,” he said, and he was passing me a plastic card. I squinted at it. 

“Key?” I asked stupidly, and he nodded. 

“Checked in before I came. Room number’s on the back. Come when you’re done, okay?” 

I smiled in spite of myself. I could barely process the thought of another round, but I knew I’d be ready by the time my shift ended.

“Won’t be too long, I hope,” I said quietly. 

He kissed me, soft and gentle, nothing like the bruising force he’d used before, and gave me one last lingering look. “See you soon,” he said, and then he unlocked the door and stepped out, shutting it quickly behind him.

I locked the door again and took a few shaky breaths, trying to prepare myself to go back out and pour drinks like nothing had happened. 

\-----

I woke up early the next morning to sunlight streaming in the motel window. At first, everything felt normal: the stinging ache where he’d fucked me sore, the stiffness when I stretched. But something was different. 

Dean hadn’t left. His leg was hooked over my waist, a heavy hot pressure, and his arm was draped over my chest. 

He mumbled something when he felt me stirring, and pulled me closer. 

“Need another hour or two before the next round,” he whispered against my neck. His breathing slowed again. My skin was sticky with sweat where he was pressed against my side. 

I was smiling as I closed my eyes and drifted off, warm and satisfied and wrapped up in Dean. 


	5. Part 4

_ You around tomorrow night?  _

I almost didn’t believe it was Dean. Sure, he was the only person who would text me at 2am on a random Tuesday, but...well, it wasn’t like Dean to  _ ask _ . 

_ Yeah. _

_ 9ish? _

_ See you then.  _

I looked up at the little black plastic bag hanging on the closet doorknob and chewed nervously at my lower lip. 

 

\-----

 

He was  _ off _ , somehow. I could see it the second he opened the door. There was none of the cocky playfulness I’d seen last time. His eyes were heavy-lidded and puffy, and I got a distinct whiff of alcohol when I walked into the room. 

“Drink?” he asked gruffly. There was a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the bedside table. I looked at him closely, trying to keep my expression neutral. Dean didn’t seem like the type who wanted people to be concerned about him. 

“Sure,” I said, and settled onto the bed next to him. 

“M’havin’ a weird week,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He passed me a paper cup of whiskey. 

“Oh?” I asked carefully. 

“My brother...I dunno. You have any siblings?” I shook my head. “Well, my brother is just...giving me a hard time about some shit recently. It’s sorta hard to explain.” There was a bitter edge to the words. 

He’d never mentioned having a brother. 

I drained my little cup, savoring the burn in my throat and the slow spread of liquid courage through my chest. 

“I have something that might take your mind off it,” I said hesitantly. He just raised an eyebrow. I dug around in my purse until I found the bag.

I handed it to Dean and he peeked inside curiously. He smirked, eyes sparkling, suddenly looking like himself again, and pulled out the bundle of soft rope. 

“I thought it could be fun,” I said, mouth suddenly dry. 

“Fuck yes,” he said. His voice had gone low and hoarse, and it sent a rush of heat through me. “Funny thing, I brought a surprise for  _ you _ tonight.” He slid off the bed and groped around underneath it for a moment. When he stood back up, there was a riding crop in his hand, long and sleek with a simple black leather tip. An involuntary shudder ran through my body. 

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, please.” 

He drained his cup and set it aside, then tugged at the rope until the end came loose. I waited, keeping myself still, trying to calm the thrum of energy that was running through my skin.

“Clothes off,” Dean said, finally. I pulled everything off unceremoniously and stood in front of him,  goosebumps prickling over my exposed skin. 

He was fiddling with the crop, slapping it experimentally against his palm. He looked up at me, lips parted ever so slightly, and he held my gaze, grinning when the leather  _ thwack _ ed against his hand again. The sound sent a stab of need through my pussy. 

“So patient,” Dean said quietly. “Good girl. Get on the bed. Lie on your back and put your hands over your head.” 

He stood up, taking the coil of rope with him, and watched as I stretched out on the bed. His eyes darkened when I put my hands above my head. When I was settled, he went to work with the rope, winding it carefully around my crossed wrists. 

“Okay?” he asked. I could feel the pressure of it, close enough that I couldn’t move but not tight enough to cut off my circulation. I tried to pull my wrists apart, testing. 

“Perfect,” I whispered. 

“You  _ look _ perfect,” Dean said. It was fervent and honest, and I flushed. He produced a swiss army knife from one of his back pockets and cut the end of the rope. 

He stood and admired his work, nodding in approval, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He was so damn  _ patient _ . It drove me absolutely crazy, the way he could just wait, teasing and torturing, letting the anticipation build. This time was no different. He stalked around the bed, taking in the view from every angle. Eventually he paused at the foot of the bed and pulled his shirt off, managing to make the movement both casual and completely elegant, revealing creamy freckled shoulders and rippling muscles. I wondered, not for the first time, what he did for a living. Those weren’t the carefully cultivated muscles of someone who went to the gym. Those were sinewy, lean muscles that served a purpose, and they were dotted with a vicious array of scars, knotted and pale. 

I lost my train of thought when he took off his jeans. He was half-hard, the outline of his cock visible against plain black boxer briefs, and I couldn’t help but stare. He was fucking gorgeous. 

He cracked the riding crop against his hand again. I shivered, heat pooling in my belly. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir,” I said. He smiled, dark and dangerous. 

He rested the tip of the riding crop on my shoulder, then trailed it down my body. The cool leather grazed over my sternum, down my stomach, and ever so delicately down my inner thigh before he brought it back up to my ribs, just below my left breast. 

I heard the impact before I felt it, leather smacking abruptly against skin, and the pain followed, searing hot. The noise that came out of my mouth was nothing recognizable as English.

Dean’s eyes were shining as he looked down at me. His chest was heaving, and I could see his knuckles going white around the handle. 

The second one was lower, an inch above my hipbone, and much harder. I arched off the bed and moaned helplessly, and before I could catch my breath there was another  _ crack _ , and then it was one sharp sting after another until the sensations blurred together, until it felt like every nerve in my body was tingling and burning. 

“Such a pretty little pussy,” Dean breathed, eyes locked on the wetness between my legs. I spread them wider for him. “Such a dirty girl, getting off on this. You love it, don’t you?” 

I whimpered something unintelligible. 

“Answer me,” he snarled. The crop whistled through the air and snapped against my breast, flicking against my already painfully hard nipple, and I almost blacked out at the intensity of it. 

“Yes,” I gasped. “Yes, fuck, Dean,  _ please _ , I need your cock, I can’t-” 

“Shhhh,” he said. He ran the leather down my body, over the marks it had made. I could feel my muscles twitching and tensing everywhere it touched. 

He set the crop down on the floor, slow and deliberate, eyebrow raised as if challenging me to beg again. I managed to control myself. I couldn’t hold back a little moan when he pulled down his underwear, though. He was so hard it must’ve been almost unbearable, and I felt my mouth water as he stroked himself a few times, watching the shiny, flushed-dark head of his cock thrusting through his fist. 

He knelt on the bed next to me, but instead of touching me where I needed it most, he slid his hands under my side and flipped me over, as easily as if I were a rag doll, so that I was face down on the mattress. When I craned my neck I could see him, out of the corner of my eye, positioning himself behind me. Rough fingers spread my knees farther apart and I felt him settling between my legs. I arched my back for him shamelessly, lifting my ass into the air so that I was completely exposed.  

His palm caressed the curve of my ass. I whined, trying to press back against his touch. Without warning, his hand was gone, and the riding crop slapped viciously against my skin instead. 

“Ohfuck _ yes _ ,” I hissed. He brought it down again on the other cheek, then back again, with a precise, mechanical rhythm that would’ve made a drummer proud, leaving just enough time between blows for me to suck in a breath and tense in anticipation of the next sting. Somewhere along the line, my body had flooded with adrenaline, and the sweet high of it was buzzing through my veins and making the pain far more bearable. 

I could feel my skin throbbing in time with my pulse when he stopped. Everything felt overheated and overstimulated, and I almost jumped when I felt his fingers at my entrance, tracing the lips of my pussy. 

“So wet,” he said softly. “Bet you’d come in seconds if I fucked you right now.” 

I hummed in agreement and tried to rock back against him. He grabbed my ass with both hands, squeezing, and I whimpered. He placed his knees on the inside of each of mine and nudged them farther apart. Slowly, carefully, he draped his body over mine, placing his hands on either side of my shoulders and wriggling so I could feel the hard length of him pressing against my cunt. 

He leaned down to nuzzle against my ear. “Do you want me to make you come now?” he whispered. 

“Please, Dean,” I half-sobbed. “Please,  _ please _ let me come, I’ll do  _ anything _ , just need you…” 

He sat upright and his hands were on my hips again, tugging me up until I could feel the blunt pressure of his cock pushing into me. 

“I want to hear you scream,” he commanded, and sank into me in one smooth thrust. 

I  _ screamed _ , biting down on the blanket to try to muffle it, my entire body shaking as I tried to adjust to the sudden incredible fullness. I could hear him panting as he stilled. I clenched down around him, eyes rolling back in my head at the stretch and burn, and he let out a long, sinful groan. 

Nobody had ever made me feel like this. Nobody had ever made me feel so powerless, so out of control, so deliciously filthy. The world beyond the motel room walls ceased to exist. The universe narrowed down to Dean and me and the incredible fire coursing through my skin. 

Then he was moving, rolling his hips, slow enough that I could feel every inch, every ridge and vein of his rock-hard cock, hitting every spot that made my toes curl and my legs tremble. 

“I told you,” he said hoarsely, “I want to hear you scream.” He punctuated the words with a sharp, powerful thrust, slamming against my g-spot, and I convulsed around him, shouting his name, babbling an incoherent string of curses as my orgasm rocked through me. 

He growled and fucked me harder, leaving me helpless as wave after wave of pleasure tightened and released in my core. He gripped my hips hard enough to leave bruises, skin slapping against overstimulated skin with a filthy, obscene noise. I could hear his stuttering moans as he got close, felt it in the wildness of his thrusts, but he kept pounding into me until I could feel a second orgasm starting to build, just as terrifyingly intense as the first. Tension coiled through my muscles. I could hear myself begging again, wrecked and desperate. 

Without warning, he tangled a hand in my hair and  _ yanked _ , pulling my head back forcefully. My entire body bowed back, arching helplessly into him as I came with all the blinding force of an electric shock. He let out a scream of his own, then, a broken wordless cry as I felt his cock twitch and pulse, felt him grinding his hips against my ass in one last impossibly deep thrust. 

He was still for a long moment. There were white spots dancing in my vision, and it took a long time for the world to stop spinning around me. 

“Fuck, Dean,” was all I could manage, and then I was laughing breathlessly, too high off adrenaline and endorphins to care that I sounded absolutely insane. Everything just felt so damn  _ good _ . If it wasn’t for his weight on top of me, solid and grounding, I could’ve floated away. 

“Okay, baby girl, you’re okay,” Dean whispered, and I could feel him tugging at the ropes, undoing the knots at my wrists. 

“Fuckin’ right I’m okay,” I giggled. I was completely limp, and when he undid the knots and helped me roll over to face him, I could only manage to grin up at him hazily. My entire body felt boneless and useless. 

“You sure?” he asked, looking down at me with what I could’ve sworn was tenderness. I nodded, admiring the way the light seemed to glow where it played through his eyelashes, the warm plush curve of his lower lip as it caught between his teeth. 

“Never better,” I said, and meant it. 

He kissed me, sweet and gentle now. He brushed his thumb over a livid red mark on my ribs and followed it with a soft kiss, then moved down to the bright welts on my hips, petting and soothing and tickling until I was laughing again. 

After he helped me clean up, pressing a cold washcloth over every inch of hot, irritated skin, he poured two more cups of whiskey. I settled back against his shoulder and he found an old Western on the television. 

He fell asleep before it was over, head drooping down to his shoulder. When I pulled away, he snuggled deeper into the bed, twitching a little and frowning as if he was having a nightmare. I turned the light off quietly and slid back under the covers, and he wrapped his arms around me, sighing happily. 

 

\-----

 

I woke to Dean’s fingers circling slowly over my clit. I stretched, spread my legs, still half-asleep as sparks began to tingle up my spine. 

“Morning, gorgeous,” he whispered, with a wicked smile. 

“I gotta go-  _ oh _ .” 

He kissed me, hungry and eager, and rolled on top of me quickly, pinning my hands to the bed. 

“You’re not going  _ anywhere _ . Not til I’m finished with you.” 


	6. Part 5

“I should probably-” The words trailed off into a groan as Dean rolled his hips against mine. His hands tightened on my wrists, just hard enough to remind me of the chafed skin where I’d struggled against the restraints the night before. 

“Stay,” he said, and pressed a thigh between my legs. 

“I have to-  _ shit _ , Dean-” 

“Please?” he asked sweetly, breath hot against my ear. “I just want to make you come until you can’t walk.” I could hear the wicked little smirk in his voice as he rocked forward again, grinding against me in exactly the right way to make me spread my legs and buck up, chasing the friction. 

It was my day off. I didn’t really have to do anything; there was nothing stopping me except the idea that spending the day with Dean would be crossing a line. Things that happen at night can be dismissed as dreams. It’s easy to pretend those dirty after-dark fantasies don’t exist. It’s harder to ignore the truth about yourself when the sun is shining. 

“Yeah, okay,” I said, because who was I kidding? I could never say no to Dean. 

“Good girl,” he crooned. He nipped almost carelessly at my earlobe, and then he was rolling off of me, leaving me feeling cold and exposed without the warm pressure of his skin. 

“Tease,” I huffed. 

“First things first,” he said, with a little wink. “I’m going to go get us some food, and you’re going to shower.” 

I pouted. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Are you going to listen?” he asked, low and dangerous. “Or do I have to remind you who’s in charge?” 

I shivered and hopped off the bed. “Yes, sir.” 

\-----

When I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a thin towel, Dean was sitting on the bed, hunched over a takeout container and talking on the phone. 

“No, Sammy, just one more day,” he said irritably. I hesitated, wondering if I should stay in the bathroom and give him some time to talk, but he half-smiled when he saw me and jabbed his fork toward a bag of takeout on the desk. 

He’d left the coffee black, just the way I liked it, and I took a long, grateful sip. 

“Stop it, I’m fine,” Dean snapped into the phone. “No, it’s not- I just need some space, okay?” He ran a hand through his hair, making his bedhead even worse. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, see you tomorrow.” He wasn’t looking at me, but I could see the unhappy curve of his lips and the tension in his shoulders. “M’gonna shower,” he mumbled, and headed for the bathroom. 

I wasn’t too interested in breakfast, but I lay on the bed, slowly sipping my coffee and trying to ignore my curiosity about that little snippet of conversation. It wasn’t long before I heard the shower stop, and I felt a little thrill of excitement up my spine. 

He had a towel wrapped low on his narrow hips, but drops of water still beaded his torso, making his skin shine in the morning light. He was clenching one of his hands into a fist. It made the veins of his forearm pop, drawing my attention to the sinewy muscles there, and that strange blister-red scar seemed to pulse. 

He was staring at me with that fierceness I’d grown so familiar with, the barely-contained predatory energy that rippled through him when he was trying to decide how to make me come undone. My goosebumped skin suddenly felt much too hot. 

He dropped the towel carelessly and crawled up the bed. When he was kneeling over me, he tugged my towel down too, yanking at it until I lifted my hips obediently, and he threw the fabric over his shoulder, leaving me bare and exposed. 

“That’s better,” he said tersely. 

When he kissed me, it was hungry and sloppy, all teeth and tongue, and he rolled his body against mine in a slow, sinuous grind. There was none of the controlled teasing I was used to, just the damp heat of his skin against mine. 

He slipped a hand down between us and slid two rough fingers inside me. It was just enough stretch that I gasped against his mouth, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness. He pulled away long enough for me to catch a glimpse of a smug smile, and then he repositioned himself gracefully and ducked his head down to my chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth as his fingers curled up against my g-spot. 

“Shit, Dean, that feels-  _ fuck _ !” He crooked his fingers again, callouses sparking the perfect amount of friction, and dragged his teeth delicately over pebbled skin, and I let out a strangled cry. He didn’t let up, didn’t give me time to catch my breath, just sucked and nibbled and swirled his tongue until my nipples were hard and aching, twisting and scissoring his fingers until I was so wet his hand was slippery with it, and my orgasm hit without warning, a sudden blinding pleasure that made me arch up into Dean’s touch as he worked me through it. 

He shifted, positioning himself between my legs. The first gentle brush of his tongue made me twitch, oversensitive but still shaking through little aftershocks, but when he did it again, flattening his tongue in a long stroke over my clit, my body responded with a shudder. He moaned against me, a deep appreciative hum, and the vibrations thrummed through my skin. I could feel a second orgasm building with each long stroke of his tongue. It didn’t take long before the tension in my core crested and rolled through me again, softer this time, leaving me breathless and sated. 

When our lips met, he rolled his hips so I could feel how hard he was. I twined my arms around his neck and relaxed into the kiss for a moment, tasting myself on his mouth, letting the endorphins buzz through my system. I tilted my hips up to meet his, waiting for the stretch of his cock, but instead he settled at my side, propping himself up on an elbow, cupping one hand around my breast as his tongue lazily explored my mouth. He brushed his thumb over the taut peak of my nipple and I shivered. 

“Want you,” I said hoarsely, as his fingers trailed down my side and traced the inner curve of my thigh. 

“I know you do,” he said. I could hear the smirk in his voice again. “But what you want doesn’t matter, does it? You’re  _ mine _ .” He put a finger on either side of my clit and pinched gently, rubbing the bundle of nerves between his fingertips, and the indirect pressure sent fresh pulses of need through my cunt. “Say it,” he demanded. 

“Yours,” I sighed. I would’ve told him anything, at that point, as long as he never stopped what he was doing. 

“Mine,” he repeated. He nipped at my lower lip. “You’re mine, and you’re going to let me do whatever I want to you. Aren’t you?” 

The words, and the rumbling depth of his voice, made me clench around nothing, suddenly feeling much too empty. “Whatever you want,” I promised. 

“I  _ want _ to make you come until you’re shaking,” he said, and his fingers slipped into me smoothly. 

“Fuckfuck _ fuck _ , Dean, please,” I panted, twisting against the mattress and pushing up into his hand. 

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you feel it for days,” he said. “I’m going to use you like the perfect little toy you are, until you don’t think you can take any more, and then I’ll make you feel so good you’re begging for it again.” 

I groaned, long and ragged. It wasn’t just the devastating things he was doing with his hand; it was the knowledge that he could make good on every single one of those filthy promises. 

He twisted his fingers and wriggled them, brushing back and forth over some incredibly sensitive spot inside me that I’d never even known existed, and the electric heat of it was so intense that I came almost instantly, head snapping back, hands clawing at the sheets, with a wordless cry that barely sounded human. He was crooning my name when I came back to my senses, slick fingers still probing and caressing, leaving tingles wherever they touched. 

“Not done with you,” he said, like a warning. “But I’ll give you a break.” 

He lay back and tugged until I was on top of him, and I practically melted into the kiss, letting my body drape over his. I could’ve kissed him for hours. The soft pillowed curve of his lower lip fit perfectly between mine, and he made a little noise of approval when I dragged my teeth over it. His fingers ran through my hair and cupped my cheek, surprisingly tender.  

I could feel his erection pressing into my thigh. I sat up, straddling him, pressing against the silky heat of his length, and I watched those gorgeous green eyes roll back in his head as he let out a sinfully low groan. I rolled my hips, looking down between us at the way his thick, flushed cock slid easily against my slickness. 

“C’mere,” he panted. He pulled me forward. I almost fell over, legs still shaky, but then I realized what he wanted and moved forward. 

He licked his lips, looking up at me through his eyelashes, and I felt his breath ghost over my pussy, sending a shiver down my spine. Ever so gently, he used two fingers to spread me open. The intimacy of it was stunning. He was staring, eyes feasting on me from this new angle, and even though there was something incredibly vulnerable about being so exposed, the hunger in his expression made it electrifying. 

The first light kitten-lick made me shudder. His hands found my hips and pulled me down against the soft, wet pressure of his tongue. He started slow, teasing and circling, and it didn’t take long before I could feel that familiar heat blossoming under my skin again. 

I looked down, and a jolt went through me when I saw his eyes sparkling back up at me, gauging my reaction to every new movement. I couldn’t look away. The laser-sharp focus of his gaze was turning me on just as much as the shallow thrusts of his tongue at my entrance. 

He grabbed my ass with both hands, squeezing hard, and moaned like I was his dessert, and I lost any semblance of self-control. I rubbed myself shamelessly against his mouth and let my head fall back, caught up in the rush of sensations: his stubble coarse on the inside of my thigh, the slippery heat of his tongue, the vibrations as he grunted and hummed, and then he reached a hand up to roll a nipple between his fingers and I couldn’t hold on anymore. I had to brace myself against the wall with both hands as I came, muscles spasming almost uncomfortably as fireworks exploded behind my eyes. 

I was so overstimulated now it was almost uncomfortable, and when he brushed over my swollen clit with his lips I jerked away from the sensation. He laughed up at me, mouth and chin glistening obscenely. My legs wouldn’t stop trembling. 

Dean maneuvered into a sitting position, somehow, so that he was leaning back against the headboard with me still straddling his lap. I could feel the barely-controlled desire in the tension of his hands, one bruisingly tight on my hip and the other splayed across my back, pulling me close. He leaned his forehead against mine and exhaled shakily before he brought our lips together. His skin was sheened with sweat and I tasted salt. 

I sank down onto his cock in one smooth motion. The sensation of being full, stretched open around him, was unlike anything else, and in spite of everything I could feel my body responding. 

“Jesus, sweetheart, feels so good,” he breathed. 

My legs were still shaking too much to really ride him, so I just twisted my hips, rocking back and forth, adjusting to his size. His mouth had gone slack and his eyes fluttered closed, eyelashes spreading like a dark fan over his cheek. I whimpered, too overwhelmed for words. 

I took it slow at first, barely moving. The slightest shift of my weight sent sparks rushing through me. His hands held my hips at first, then my ass, and then he ran his fingers up my sides and palmed over my breasts, pinching at my nipples. He ducked his head forward to suck gently at one, and I leaned into the flare of pleasure, letting the motion gradually pull me almost all the way off his cock. He looked down to where our bodies were joined together, staring unabashedly at the perfect pornographic sight. 

I slid easily back down, taking him all the way in with a rough grind of my hips, squeezing myself around him. He practically convulsed, nails dragging down my back in a red-hot trail of pain. I hissed at the sensory overload, but it was perfect, exactly the right amount of burn to make my clit throb and my pussy clench around him again, and I could feel him shuddering with the effort of holding back. 

And there it was again; he was holding back, keeping himself under control, as if he was trying to prove something to himself.

“Dean, it’s okay,” I whispered, “I can take it. Whatever you want.” 

In his split-second of hesitation, I saw the animalistic hunger in his eyes, and I wondered if I had made a mistake. 

He  _ snarled _ , grabbing me by the hips and slamming me down onto his cock so hard I felt him punch against my cervix. I was as limp as a rag doll, but his hands were around my waist, lifting me easily and bringing me down against him with furious force, again and again, until I came so hard it felt like my brain would short out with the intensity of it. 

He practically threw me off him, tossing me to the side and pouncing on top of me, and then he was pounding into me again, hips snapping forward with brutal strength. He bit and sucked at every part of my neck and shoulders he could reach while my hands clawed at his back, nails raking against sweat-soaked skin. It felt like we were trying to pull each other apart. 

His pupils had dilated into pinpricks, and he looked ferocious and wild and gone. He had given himself over completely to the strange fury he’d been keeping so tightly controlled. Maybe it should’ve scared me, the savage strength in the way he pinned me to the bed, but it just made me feel alive. 

I heard my voice as if from a distance, broken and desperate, begging for  _ more, harder _ . Somehow, even though it felt like he might break me, each powerful thrust sent a coil of fire spiraling through my veins, twisting and tightening and building. It was the most perfect kind of obliteration. I couldn’t think, couldn’t see straight, couldn’t remember my own name when he was fucking me; everything disappeared, stripped down to primal, gut-wrenching cries and the vicious slap of skin against skin. 

His movements stuttered, and he let out one last strangled moan, hips surging against mine in a futile attempt to get closer, deeper. I let go, let that wave of bliss crest and crash, surrendering completely as he trembled, cock pulsing inside me, and finally went still. 

It took some time for the world to ease back into focus. We were sprawled across the bed in a tangle of limbs, his arm draped over my chest, and I spet a long minute trying to count the freckles on his shoulder. 

It was always so peaceful, after.  _ He _ was peaceful. His eyes were heavy-lidded and hazy, and his mouth curled up easily at the corners. Whatever restless energy he exorcised when he was with me, whatever he was running from, it was gone, at least for a while. 

I had wondered, sometimes, if there was something wrong with me. It felt wrong, to want this near-violent  _ thing _ with a near-stranger, this messy dark non-relationship with bruises and bites instead of the usual rom-com fantasy of flowers and chocolates. Hell, I still didn’t know Dean’s last name. 

Whatever this _ thing _ was, though, it felt too good to be wrong. If I was dark and twisted, so be it; at least there was someone whose darkness fit so perfectly with my own. 

\-----

He walked me to the door the next morning and kissed me goodbye like it had been a date. I was so surprised by it that I couldn’t think of anything to say. 

I blinked into the aggressively bright sunlight. Everything seemed too hard around the edges, too sharply focused. 

I had to take a moment to collect myself when I got into my car. When I lifted my hands to the steering wheel, my sleeves pulled back, revealing the irritated marks where the rope had rubbed my wrists, and I shivered. 

I adjusted the rearview mirror. He was watching me from the window, a sliver of his smirk visible through the blinds, eyes hidden in a stripe of shadow. I couldn’t help but smile back as I started the engine and pulled away. 


	7. Six

I couldn’t seem to settle down on Friday. I kept pacing my small house, tidying up here and there, but mostly trying to see it through Dean’s eyes. 

Dean knew me in a raw, intimate way that few people ever had; he knew how to touch me, how to tease, how to make me scream, how to make me come undone. He’d seen me naked and vulnerable and begging. The connection we shared was real and honest, sometimes terrifyingly so. 

Still, it felt strange to imagine him in my little room, sitting on my old quilt or looking at the photos on the dresser. What would he think of the old image of me as a child, tucked under my grandfather’s arm with a balloon animal in my hand? What would he think of my overstuffed bookshelf? Would it fit with what he knew of me? Would I still be the person he’d imagined? 

Then again, I told myself sternly, he’d probably never bothered to imagine. 

\-----

Right on time, I heard the low rumble of a car in the driveway, and got up to open the door. 

“Hey,” he said easily, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. “You look nice.” He gave me a quick kiss as he stepped inside, and I closed the door behind him. 

“Thanks,” I managed. “You too.” He was wearing a plain white button-down with dark jeans, and he looked like he belonged in a cologne ad, not my house. 

“Brought you something,” he said. He winked and held out a plain shopping bag. 

It took me a second to process: I saw a little black egg-like thing, attached to a loop of plastic-coated string, and a small, flat remote with a couple tiny buttons… a remote-control vibrator. I couldn’t help the heat that crept up my neck. He was watching me with a devilish grin, eyes sparkling. I opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn’t find words; a giggle escaped instead. 

“Yeah?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. I nodded. He pulled a Swiss army knife nonchalantly from his back pocket and cut open the thick plastic packaging. He handed me the egg-thing before inspecting the remote. It looked tiny in his big palm. He pocketed it with one more smug smile. 

“Be right back,” I said. 

It didn’t take long to get it inserted, and it wasn’t uncomfortable, just thick enough to remind me it was there, fitted snugly against the contours of my body. I smoothed my black dress over my thighs and took a moment to collect myself. There were high splotches of color in my cheeks when I looked in the mirror, but I was grinning in spite of the strangeness of the whole situation. 

Dean was slouched in one of the chairs when I came back out, looking entirely too attractive for my plain living room, but he smiled when he saw me. “Let’s go,” he said casually, as if we went out to dinner all the time.

“Nice car,” I remarked as he held the door open for me. It wasn’t what I had expected, really, but it suited him, and his eyes sparkled at the compliment. 

“She’s my baby,” he said proudly. I saw him caress the hood as he walked around to the driver’s side. 

The Allman Brothers were playing on the stereo when he started the car, and I smiled at the familiar opening to One Way Out. 

“I love this song,” I commented. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. My parents were big-time hippies. Used to tell me stories about walking miles barefoot to see the Dead and the Allman Brothers… My dad loved Jethro Tull, too, and apparently there’s an old video of him online tripping balls and standing right in front of one of their huge amps and dancing like a lunatic, but I’ve never found it.” 

Dean laughed. “The Dead were never my thing, but my dad handed down all the classics. Zeppelin’s my favorite.” 

“Yeah? What’s your favorite album?”

“Too hard to pick one. Check this out though.” He reached across me to pop open the glove compartment, and I saw a massive pile of cassette tapes. I pulled a few out and examined the label; it was a mix, with a tracklist scrawled in exceptionally messy handwriting. I squinted, trying to make out the words. 

The first vibrations took me by surprise, a sudden shiver thrumming against my g-spot, and I couldn’t hold back a startled little gasp that turned into a low moan. It was gone before I’d fully realized what was happening. 

Dean was smirking, still focused completely on the road, but his left hand was in his pocket, toying with the remote. 

“Seriously?” I asked breathlessly. “Fuck.” 

“Later,” he promised. “If you’re good, that is. What’s your favorite Zeppelin album?” 

The rest of the drive passed quickly as we talked about music, but I was on edge the entire time, distracted by the liquid heat curling through my belly. 

Dean didn’t take his hand out of his pocket until we reached the restaurant. I kept waiting to feel that hum again, but there was nothing as we walked in and got settled at the table. He’d chosen a small Italian place downtown, nice and dimly-lit enough to feel intimate, maybe even romantic, but not so nice that I felt out of place. 

“I forgot to ask if they do burgers,” he said. He was frowning at his menu, and I looked down at mine. 

I barely managed to hold back a curse as I felt the buzz start back up between my legs, and I gripped the edge of the table, trying my best to control my expression. He let it go on for a few seconds this time, just long enough for me to relax into the sensation. It was gentle and soft, and I could tell it wouldn’t be enough to make me come, but I felt tingles building under my skin… and then it stopped. 

When I met his eyes, the look on his face made my breath catch. He licked the soft red curve of his lower lip, green eyes glittering in the low light. Yet again I was reminded of how movie-star gorgeous he was. I would’ve felt plain by comparison, but the heat between us, the smoldering way he looked at me, made me feel so sexy and desired it didn’t leave room for insecurity. 

He looked around, checking that nobody would be able to overhear us; luckily, we’d been seated in a quiet corner, but he still spoke so softly I had to lean in to hear him. “Does that feel good?” 

“Yes,” I said shakily. “God, yes.” 

“Think you can keep quiet?” 

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, because I really had no idea if I’d be able to handle this particular game, but I was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the waiter. 

“Can I bring you something to drink?” he asked. Dean ordered a beer, and I picked a random wine from the menu. “And would you like to hear our specials tonight?” 

“Hit me,” Dean said, with an easy smile. The waiter was maybe three words into a long list when I felt the vibrations again, arousal fluttering through my core, and I glared at Dean. He wasn’t looking at me. His attention was trained completely on the waiter, like he was absolutely transfixed by the thought of salmon. 

The buzz intensified without warning, and I couldn’t help but whine, pressing my thighs together. 

“You okay there?” Dean asked. His voice was maddeningly even. 

I nodded. “That just… sounds really good.” I smiled brightly at the waiter, trying to ignore the way my pussy clenched desperately around the vibration. “I’ll take one of those, please.” He nodded, looking at me like he was concerned. I had no idea what I’d ordered.

“I’ll take the burger,” Dean said. “Thanks.” 

The waiter nodded and walked away. 

“Jesus, fuck, Dean, I don’t know if I can-” 

He turned it up again, and the throb in my clit reached an almost unbearable intensity before he turned it off completely. I was left panting, feeling suddenly starved for sensation.

“So,” he said. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?” 

I raised my eyebrows at him in disbelief. My head was spinning, and it took a few deep breaths before I could steady my voice. “From here, basically. I moved away for a while, but I came back. What about you?” 

“Lawrence,” he said. “Not too far from here. Live in Lebanon now, though. Got family around here still?” 

“Nah. I did, until a few years ago.” I felt strange telling him those basic details. After knowing each other for months, it seemed bizarre to just now be getting to things like hometowns. But he was watching me with open interest, waiting for me to say more, and so I did. 

He was surprisingly easy to talk to. We fell into conversation like it was a real first date, and a good one, for that matter. He was charming and funny and oddly geeky, and I found myself laughing more than I’d laughed with anyone in a long time. 

“So Sammy and I were playing with this samurai sword in Bobby’s yard, and there was this tree with a bunch of ripe crabapples, and so I started throwing them at him. I think I was trying to play baseball but he was pretending he was Luke with a lightsaber. But I threw one really hard. As fast as I could. And he actually hit it, and the sword went right the fuck through it-” 

“Seriously?” 

“It gets better. He sliced this apple exactly in two. And one half hit him in the stomach, and the other hit him in the nuts.” 

“That’s amazing.” I was trying to imagine Dean as a kid. “Why the fuck did your uncle have a sword?” 

“Ready?” he asked. 

“What?” 

The vibrations sent a fizzing wave of sparks up my spine, and then he turned it up immediately and my eyes almost rolled back in my head. I twisted my napkin in my lap, trying to take some of the frustration out on the cloth, while Dean just watched me with a smug, unwavering smile. He turned it up again, and I couldn’t hold back a strangled moan as my legs trembled with the effort of keeping still. I shifted, trying to find some relief, some sort of escape from the relentless sensation, but the vibrator was pressed perfectly against my sweet spot and I wanted to writhe and beg and scream for more. 

“Dean, I can’t,” I said, through gritted teeth. 

“You will,” he ordered. His voice had a steely edge that almost made me lose control, but it was impossible for me to disobey when he used that tone. I gripped my napkin so tightly I could see my knuckles going white. 

“Feels so good,” I whimpered. The edges of my vision began to blur with the effort of holding back. 

“Not nearly as my cock is going to feel pounding into that tight little cunt,” he said. His face was completely composed, and to look at him, I’d think he was talking about the weather. “You get yourself under control now, or you don’t get to feel that later. Understood?” 

“Okay,” I choked out. 

“Good girl,” he praised. I drew in a shaky breath, then another, managing to compose my face into something relatively normal, and finally felt the vibrations fading away. I was squirming in my seat and panting, already wanting more. 

“Are you trying to kill me?” I asked. 

He grinned, a wide cocky Cheshire Cat smile. “Nah. Just trying to get you so worked up you come the second I’m inside you.” 

The waiter showed up with our plates, and I welcomed the distraction. 

Apparently I’d ordered something with pasta. It was delicious. Even better, Dean had to use both hands to pick up his massive burger, so I knew I was safe for a few minutes at least, but he made an obscene moan when he took the first bite that managed to turn me on all over again. 

“I’ve heard you say some dirty shit, but the way you just reacted to that meat might be the dirtiest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” I commented, and he grinned around his mouthful of food. 

“I’d still rather eat you any day,” he responded, when he’d swallowed. He licked his lips and leaned in. “God, I bet you’re soaked right now.” 

“Yeah,” I admitted. My forkful of pasta hovered over my plate, completely forgotten. 

“You taste so good, you have no idea. I love fucking you open with my tongue… I like it best when you sit on my face. You get so wet, it drips down my chin, and when I suck on your clit your thighs start shaking and you just lose control and rub yourself against my mouth-” 

I was so focused on his words that I hadn’t noticed his hand sneaking down to his lap. He set it to pulse this time, pulse hard, in intense throbbing jolts that made me shudder from head to toe. 

I keened, a high desperate noise that I barely recognized as coming from my own mouth, and he chuckled, infuriatingly calm. 

“What, don’t you like your food?” he teased. The vibrations stopped. “Eat.” 

I was shaking with need. My fork clattered against the plate when I set it down, and I twined my fingers in my napkin again, trying to control myself. 

“Not sure how much more of this I can take.” 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll make it worth your while.” He smirked around the rim of his beer glass. “Anyway, you never told me if you have siblings.” 

He let me eat in peace, after that. We talked more, about traveling and music and other odds and ends, but as much fun as we were having, I was beyond impatient to get back to my house. 

“Can I interest you in dessert? Coffee?” the waiter asked, finally. 

“No,” I practically shouted. 

“You sure? I heard they make a great tiramisu,” Dean suggested. I glared. “Okay, then, just the check,” he said. 

I fidgeted until the check came. Dean grabbed it before I could protest. 

“Thank you,” I said. “Torture aside, that was the best meal I’ve had in a while.” 

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made my heart thump. 

When we got outside, he grabbed the handle of the passenger-side door like he was going to open it for me, but seemed to change his mind. Instead he pushed me up against the cool metal and kissed me sweetly, his lips pillowy-perfect on mine, and I sighed into it. 

“I had fun tonight,” he whispered against my mouth. 

“Trying to kill me, you mean? ‘Cause that really was torture.” 

“Talking to you.” His lips captured mine again before I could respond, and I wound my arms around his neck, running my fingers over his stubbled jaw, relaxing into his embrace. “The torture was fun too.” He nipped at my lip, and shoved a thigh between my legs in a way that made me gasp. “But that’s not over yet.” 

The searing, blistering heat returned so fast I was dizzy with it. I rocked forward against his leg, reveling in the friction, embarrassingly close just from the blunt pressure. 

He pulled away, pressing the button at the same time, and I almost lost my balance. He had it on the lowest setting again, but I was so feverish and overstimulated it felt like a million volts of electricity shivering through my skin. 

Dean opened the door for me, and I practically collapsed into the seat. He held the remote in one hand as he began to drive, and before long, he was playing with it again, pressing the button to make the vibration increase and then setting it to pulse. I rubbed my legs together, clenching down helplessly around the little egg, and now that we weren’t in public I let him hear exactly how good it felt, crying out his name and a litany of curses and pleas. He kept his eyes on the road, but I could see his dick beginning to harden against his thigh. 

“You don’t get to come until I say so,” he snapped. He turned the vibration back down to a steady, constant purr and I almost sobbed. 

“Need you, you have no idea how this feels, fuck, need your cock, want to feel you stretching me open.” 

“If you keep begging, I’m going to have to punish you when we get home,” he growled. 

“Fuck yes,” I said, my voice harsh and broken. “Punish me, do whatever you want to me, I’ll take it, just pull over.” 

He stole a sideways glance at me and I saw the muscles of his jaw working. “Touch yourself for me. Let me see.” 

I arched back against the seat and tugged my panties down, pulling the hem of my dress up and spreading my legs for him. I was too desperate to put on a show; I pressed the heel of my hand into my swollen clit and slid two fingers inside myself, up to where I could feel the smooth silicone still vibrating against my g-spot, and I was so wet I was pretty sure I’d leave a mark on the upholstery. 

Dean grabbed my wrist without warning and pulled my hand toward him, and I whined at the loss of sensation, but he sucked my fingers into his mouth and licked them clean, and I was hypnotized by the warmth of his tongue, the soft smooth pressure. 

“Want you,” I whispered. He released my wrist and palmed himself through his jeans, and I reached down to snake my hand under his. He was so hard his cock was straining against the rough fabric. His breath hitched when I rubbed down his length, and I popped open the button of his pants and then eased down the zipper, and when he didn’t move to stop me I pulled him free of his boxers, stroking the hot silky length of him. I could feel a slick little bead of precome gathering at the tip and I bent my head without thinking about it, swirling my tongue to lick up the saltiness. 

He let out a ragged, needy noise. I shifted, twisting awkwardly in my seat to bend over farther, but the strain on my back was worth it to feel the way he bucked up into my throat when I ducked my head and swallowed him down. I pressed my tongue into the vein on the underside of his cock, bobbing up and down a few times and savoring the thickness of him. He tangled a hand in my hair, tugging just hard enough to spark a little jolt of pain that shot straight to my clit, and my cunt spasmed around the vibrator. I was too close to hold off much longer. 

I took Dean down as far as I could, feeling him press against my throat, and sucked, hard. He let out a garbled string of curses and I felt the Impala jerk as he finally pulled over. 

“Backseat,” he gasped. I was obeying before he’d turned off the engine. 

We were on a quiet, winding road, in a wooded area, and nobody would see the car until they were close to it, but… we weren’t exactly hidden, either. Then again, I doubted this was going to last long enough for it to matter, and I was too far gone to care. 

Somewhere in the mad scramble into the backseat, Dean managed to turn off the vibrator. I tugged at the loop until the thing slid out and let it fall to the floor. Dean was crowding into my space as soon as the door closed, shoving me back against the seat, biting a fiery trail down my neck while he fumbled with his belt, and the second his pants were down enough to free his cock he was grinding against me, pressing against my clit in a way that made fireworks explode in my vision. I was half falling off the seat but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered beyond the pulsing need in my cunt and the strangled sound he made when I dug my fingernails into the exposed curve of his ass and raised my hips to meet his. 

The first thrust sent heat roiling through my skin, and every muscle in my body tensed and tingled as he slid home. He pulled all the way out before slamming back into me, twisting his hips, and that was all it took; my orgasm hit with a blinding force, wave after wave of pleasure building and cresting and rippling, and he fucked me through it, snapping forward with explosive strength, filling me up so completely that each thrust sent a new shock of ecstasy through me. I shook helplessly under him, clawing at his back under his shirt, crying out with each movement. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned. I felt his rhythm go rough and erratic, and then his hips surged forward one last time and his cock pulsed and twitched inside me as he came. 

He rested his forehead against mine as we came down, breath intermingling, and he peppered gentle kisses down my jaw. 

I was so blissed out that it took a minute or so to realize how incredibly uncomfortable I was. We were a messy tangle of limbs; Dean had one knee on the floor, the other wedged between my body and the back of the seat, and my back was twisted at an odd angle. Still, I whined when he pulled back, feeling bereft and much too empty. My clit was still so swollen and sensitive from the torture of the vibrator that I was already eager for more. 

We straightened ourselves out, or at least got mostly clothed again, and got back into the front seats. When the engine began to rumble again, the vibration through the leather upholstery made me squirm, and I saw Dean’s eyes go dark as he watched me bite my lip. 

“Drive fast,” I suggested. The tires squealed as he floored it. 

\-----

We showered together, the next morning. He washed my hair, massaging with those ridiculously strong hands, and I melted back against him in the hot spray, humming happily as he ran his fingers through the tangles. I could feel him half-hard against the small of my back, but he took his time, moving slowly and gently. 

He ran his hands down my arms, rubbing gently at a blossoming bruise with one careful thumb. “You sure you’re okay with all this?” he murmured in my ear. 

“More than okay,” I answered, and turned around to face him. He was flushed from the steam, and I watched beads of water gather and roll down his cheeks, over the scattering of freckles on his cheeks and then down the rosy red of his mouth. I licked a drop from the curve of his lower lip and he smiled. 

He kissed me and I leaned back against the cool tiled wall, letting it deepen, feeling him against me. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered against my mouth, but then he dipped his head to tease at my nipple and I couldn’t find the words to respond. 

Later, when we were dressed and getting ready to leave, I turned to find him looking at the photo of my grandfather and me. 

“I like it,” he said, when he met my eyes again. He smiled, crooked and sweet, and something twisted in my ribcage.


	8. Seven

I’d just finished an early dinner on Thursday night when the phone rang. It was Dean, and I couldn’t help but smile as I answered.

“Hey.” 

“Hey, so… you busy tonight?” His voice sounded hoarse and strange, a little panicked. 

“Nah, had the lunch shift today,” I said. “You want to swing by later?” 

“Yeah, that would be great,” he said, and I could hear the relief in his voice. “Except. I’m sorta almost there already? Just. I just started driving and- yeah.” 

“Well, as long as you’re okay with a messy house, I don’t see the problem with that,” I said. I was already walking toward the bedroom, trying to assess how much I could clean before he arrived. 

“I’ll see you soon then.” 

\-----

It was barely ten minutes before the doorbell rang. Dean looked exhausted, stubble along his jaw and bags under his eyes, and he had a fresh-looking cut through his eyebrow. My stomach dropped at the sight of it, but I didn’t say anything. He stood on the doorstep and looked at me searchingly, as if he hoped I had the answer to a question he couldn’t articulate. 

“Want something to drink?” I asked, once we were inside. He stood in my kitchen and watched with that same helpless, questioning look while I poured two glasses of Jack. I made his a double. 

He followed me to my bedroom and sat down on the bed before tossing back most of the glass in one gulp. 

“So, you gonna tell me what’s going on?” I asked, taking a small sip. I settled next to him and leaned back against the headboard, rubbing my thumb over the tense muscles at the curve of his neck. 

“I did something… bad,” he said slowly. His eyes were flicking back and forth, staring at nothing, like he was seeing something I couldn’t. 

“Are we talking bad like the police are about to come knock on my door?” I said. With the expression on his face, it seemed like a fair question. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up in some approximation of a smile. “No, not like… not like that. I just- well. I needed to be around someone who… wasn’t there.” 

He sounded haunted and distant, and I was almost unbearably curious, but I pushed it away. “Tell me what you need.” 

He just shrugged. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like this. He was usually the one with all the answers, the one in charge, the one with the plan. Now he just looked lost and confused. I considered him for a moment. Maybe he just needed to rest, to relax, to fuck and fall asleep, but somehow I knew what he was trying to say. 

“You want me to tell you,” I said. It wasn’t a question. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, and again, louder, like he was still processing it, “Yeah. Yes.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure. Just… no restraints, or anything. Otherwise… I trust you.” 

I nodded slowly and took a deep breath, setting my glass down on the bedside table, and he drained his and set it next to mine. I tried not to think about what this meant to him, that he would trust me with this. I knew it couldn’t be easy. 

“Take your clothes off and lie down,” I said firmly. My heart was pounding, but I made my voice stay steady. 

He obeyed, shrugging out of his flannel and pulling his t-shirt over his head, and I watched muscles shift under the freckled skin of his back and shoulders. He stood to get out of his jeans with his back still to me. I stared shamelessly. There was a livid bruise splashed across his lower back, deep purple and obviously new. I wondered if he was a boxer, or maybe a bodyguard. I didn’t want to ask about it, though, not now, not when he was lying down and looking up at me with that anxious expression, waiting for instructions. 

“Hold on to one of the bars in the headboard. Don’t let go.” 

He did it without a word. I stood up slowly and took my time getting my clothes off, and I watched the muscles in his arms where they stretched over his head. He looked gorgeous like that, laid bare, vulnerable. He wasn’t hard yet, not all the way, but I saw his cock twitch when I pulled off my bra and let it fall. I turned around to take off my jeans, bending over a little to give him a show. 

When I was naked I crawled back onto the bed and kneeled over him, running a thumb up his arm and over his knuckles where they were clenched around the wood of the headboard. 

“Is this okay?” I asked. He just nodded. I kissed him, a barely-there brush of lips, and whispered against his mouth, “Just tell me if you need to stop.” 

He nodded, and I sat up, letting my eyes travel down his body. He was much harder now, his cock curving up against the pale skin of his stomach. 

“Don’t let go,” I repeated, voice steadier now. “And don’t make any noise.” 

His exhale was shaky, but he nodded again. 

I moved down his body, tugging his knees apart so I could settle between them. His eyes followed every movement. I saw his cock twitch again as I leaned forward, getting closer, but I moved just to the right of it, pressing my mouth into the soft skin of his stomach. I dragged my tongue down from his belly button to the crease of his thigh, nice and easy, and then did the same on the other side, hearing the catch in his breath as I got close to his cock. 

I wasn’t used to feeling powerful, when we were together. It was strange and new, but I could feel the high of it, the intoxication of being the one in charge. 

I ran my nails down his thigh experimentally, just a graze, letting him feel my breath against his cock, and then did it again, harder, enough to pull faint pink lines down his skin. His mouth was slack, pupils blown as he watched me. I smiled and did it again, even harder this time, and he shivered. I could see a muscle in his stomach twitch with the effort of holding still. I licked over the marks my fingers had made, soothing, and then blew over the heated skin. When I looked up again, Dean’s chest was heaving. He was fully hard now, flushed and heavy. 

I placed a hand on his other thigh. This time, I swallowed him down as I scratched, bobbing my head without warning. His hips rocked up off the bed, almost choking me, and he let out a long, keening moan. I pulled off immediately. 

“What did I say?” I asked, pinching the skin just over his hip. I held it tightly, watching the skin change color before I let go. I could hear him panting, trying to get himself under control, but he looked lost in it, biting his lip, giving no sign of wanting to stop. “Good,” I said. 

I licked over one of the scratches, the darkest line, feeling the heat where the blood was rushing to the surface, and then ran my tongue delicately up his thigh to the base of his cock, then circled over his balls. He trembled at that, trying to keep it together, but didn’t make a sound. 

“Being so good for me,” I praised, close enough still that he could feel my breath, and he shivered again. I licked slowly up his shaft and swirled my tongue over the head, tasting bitter precome beaded there, before hollowing my cheeks to go down again, until I could feel the head pressing against the back of my throat. I hummed around him before pulling off. His eyelashes were fluttering against his cheeks, eyes half-closed and lower lip swollen red where he’d bitten it. 

I could feel the heat simmering in my core, rising as I watched him. I’d never realized what this would be like. My clit throbbed as I imagined what it would be like for him, the sting of the scratches. 

He opened his eyes and met my gaze, pupils blown, and he licked his lips slowly. I shuddered and felt much too empty. 

I slid my lips around him slowly, this time, taking him in inch by inch, and dragged my nails over his skin in the same steady pace, adding a new set of scratches. I bobbed my head a few times, feeling how hard he was, veins raised along the hot velvety skin. When I had him as deep as I could manage, I slapped the marks lightly, just enough to sting the sensitized skin, and he arched up into my mouth, but didn’t make a sound. I moaned appreciatively around him. I sucked hard as I pulled off and his cock fell from my lips with an obscene pop. 

Dean was panting, flushed like he had a fever, and I could see his tension in the whiteness of his knuckles. His eyes were glazed over. 

“I think,” I said, and it came out more desperate than I’d intended, “you deserve a reward. For being so good. Would you like that?” 

He nodded, frantic, but still didn’t speak. 

“You can talk now. You can beg,” I said. 

“Please,” he said immediately, “please let me taste you. Want to make you come.” 

I hissed out a breath. “Since you asked so nicely.” 

I moved awkwardly forward, straddling his chest, until I could feel the warmth of his breath between my legs. I held the headboard and sighed at the first gentle brush of his tongue. 

God, he was good at this. He knew exactly how to use his mouth, when to flatten his tongue, when to stiffen it and flick it across my clit in a way that sent little shock waves of pleasure through me. I let my hips rock into the perfect warm pressure of his mouth. He found a rhythm quickly, too far gone to tease the way he usually would, licking and sucking, and he was making these desperate little noises of enjoyment like he was getting off on it just as much as I was. It didn’t take long before I was grinding down against him helplessly, each rough scrape of stubble over my thighs making my body tighten in anticipation. 

“Dean, fuck-” I panted, and as if to answer, he released the headboard, gripping my hips to bring me closer. I let out a broken cry, somewhere between a curse and a moan, and pulled away immediately, moving back. 

“Shit, sorry, I-” he was already saying, grabbing the wood again. 

I tangled a hand in his hair and tugged, hard, yanking his head back to expose his neck. “What did I say?” 

“You told me not to let go. I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was ragged and hoarse, and I could hear the desperate hunger behind the submissive words. 

“That’s right,” I said coolly, trying to ignore the need pulsing in my clit. Every cell in my body wanted to give in, to let him flip me over and hold me down, to beg until he gave me what I needed. Not tonight. 

I knew I was pulling his hair hard enough for him to feel the sting. He looked content like that, though, eyelashes fluttering against his freckled cheek, mouth slack, lips obscenely red and swollen. I licked over the sinful softness of his bottom lip, tasting myself on him. 

He groaned when I moved lower and nipped at the sensitive skin just below his earlobe. I did it again, worrying the skin between my teeth, biting just hard enough to leave a splash of angry red there. I rubbed my tongue over the flushed spot, massaging gently, before moving a few inches lower and sucking a new mark into the skin there, and then blew cool air over it before moving again. I took my time with him. By the time my teeth found his collarbone, he was arching up into it, back bowed, tension written in every muscle and tendon of his body. He looked like a work of art, all these gorgeous planes and angles and shadows and lines, and it took my breath away for a moment. 

He was clenching his jaw to keep from crying out. When I looked down, his cock was flushed deep red, leaking against his stomach, so hard it must have ached. 

“Think you can be good while I ride you?” I asked. He nodded, eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, look at me.” 

He met my gaze, pupils huge and dark in a ring of sparkling green. 

“You okay?” 

He nodded once. 

I moved down his body, straddling his hips, and brushed the very tip of his cock against the wetness between my legs. He hissed and twitched like I’d shocked him, but he didn’t let go of the headboard. 

“Being so good,” I praised breathlessly. “So good for me. Think you can wait a little longer?” 

He nodded again, and I gripped the base of his cock, holding him still so I could sink down an inch, taking in just the head. He let out a long, ragged sigh. 

“You can make noise, now,” I said. “Want to hear you.” 

“God, fuck yes, please, don’t fucking stop,” he gasped out, all in one breath. I smirked, feeling a sort of pride in the way he was following instructions. It clearly wasn’t easy for him; that string of profanity had been waiting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for my permission. A lightning bolt of want struck through me at the realization. 

I slid down slowly, inch by slick torturous inch, until he was buried as deep as he could be, and let out a long, shuddering moan at the perfect fullness. I leaned forward, molding myself against the planes of his chest, feeling the heat of his bare skin against mine. I rocked my hips slightly, trying to catch my breath. 

“You’re going to be good and hold on until I come,” I whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck. I nipped gently at his pulse point. “And after that, I’m all yours.” I could feel the hitch in his breath.

I stayed pressed against him, chest to chest, not riding him so much as grinding down in a sinuous twist. I could feel him everywhere. His skin was scorching hot pressed against mine, from where my forehead rested on his collarbone, all the way down to where we were joined together, so close I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. The slightest movement sent a ripple of pleasure running up my spine from where my clit was pressed against him. I rolled my body against his shamelessly, finding a clumsy rhythm, past caring about technique or how I looked, just doing what felt right, using him the way he wanted to be used. 

It was an assault on my senses, too much bare skin and glorious friction and the constant litany of half-moaned curses that fell from his lips, too much heat and stretch and fire. I could feel my body shake as my orgasm built, everything going tight and urgent, until it exploded, blinding white behind my eyelids as the first wave crashed through me. 

I heard him practically shout, as if from a distance, and felt his hands on me, finally. I’d expected him to flip me over and fuck me into the mattress. Instead he stayed right where he was. His hips rolled up to meet mine as he crushed me against his chest with one arm, while the other hand gripped my waist, holding me in place to meet each powerful thrust. 

It didn’t make any sort of sense, the way Dean made me feel. There was no rhyme or reason or rhythm to it, just chaos, sensation, too much and never enough. 

I couldn’t focus on any one thing; it was a blur of sweat-shiny skin, too-big eyes, a gasp from bitten-red lips, nails down my back, fingers tangled in the sheets, the heat of him filling me up. He was shaking under me, against me, inside me, and when he came I felt it in his entire body, the way he arched up and went still for one long perfect moment before shuddering with almost violent force. He was clinging to me as it faded, one hand in my hair and the other on my back, holding me tight. I pressed easy kisses to his jaw and waited for everything to stop spinning. 

“Need water,” I said eventually. He made a sweet, unhappy noise when I disentangled myself. 

I collected water, a cool washcloth, and a bottle of aloe lotion from the bathroom, and handed him the glass before settling on my knees to inspect the damage I’d done. He had livid, angry red welts down both of his thighs and a trail of deep bruises up the side of his neck. I wiped the scratches with the washcloth to soothe the heated skin while he watched me with heavy-lidded eyes. I could see the uncertainty in his face. 

“You okay?” I asked. “Was I too rough?” 

“No, it was- you were… it was perfect,” he said, voice unsteady. “I didn’t realize… I just. Didn’t realize what that would be like.” 

I rubbed aloe into the irritated skin and avoided eye contact. “Intense. Yeah.” 

“Yeah. Can you just… C’mere.” 

He tugged at my wrist until I settled back down on the bed. He curled against my side, resting his head on my chest. I traced patterns into the soft hair at the nape of his neck until he fell asleep. 

\-----

I woke up to morning sun streaming into my bedroom, bright and cheerful, and I stretched lazily, feeling satisfied and content. Dean wasn’t in bed, but I could see his jeans still piled in the corner, so he couldn’t have gone far. I got up and slipped into an oversized shirt before padding out to the kitchen to start coffee. 

To my surprise, he was already there, standing in my kitchen in his boxers as he flipped what looked like a perfect omelette. 

“I smell bacon,” I said happily. He nodded and gestured at another pan. 

“Coffee, too.” 

“God, yes.” 

“I figured I owed you one, after I just sorta showed up outta nowhere last night.” He was smiling, but I could see the tension at the edges of it, the worry that he’d crossed some kind of line. 

I didn’t say anything, just stepped up behind him and pressed myself against his back, kissing the bony spot at the top of his spine. 

“Any time,” I said. I was almost surprised by how much I meant it.


	9. Eight

We showered together after breakfast. Dean pressed close in the narrow confines of my little shower, pressed me back against the cool tile and kissed me, sweet and wet and warm, gentle and teasing even as his hands held me firmly in place. He kept his distance, kept a few inches between our bodies, brushing quick kisses over my mouth, my jaw, and then my neck, nibbling in a way that made my breath hitch. I reached out for him, trying to keep myself steady, and he made a disapproving noise before grabbing my wrists, lightning-fast, and trapping them against the shower wall. I let out a shaky sigh and tilted my head back, waiting. 

“Turn around,” Dean said, so quiet I could barely hear him over the sound of the water. He let go and I turned obediently, bracing myself against the wall with my forearms. Tingling heat was gathering between my legs, my stomach going tight and tense with anticipation, and I closed my eyes, breathing deep and waiting to feel Dean’s hands again, on my hips or my breasts or my ass. Maybe he’d spank me, first. Maybe he’d tease. 

Instead, I felt his hands combing through my hair. I whined, questioning, but he just massaged my scalp, rubbing little circles with strong fingers. 

“What are you -” 

“Washing your hair,” he said calmly. “You’re going to be quiet. When we get out of the shower, you’re going to call out of work.” 

“Dean -” 

His fingers tightened, tugging at my hair, a clear warning. 

“Okay,” I whispered, and closed my eyes again. 

“You’re mine today.” 

\-----

When I reached for a towel, Dean slapped my hand away and made me wait while he dried off. He took his time about it, rubbing the towel over his hair, down his chest, knotting it carefully around his waist, completely unhurried and apparently unbothered by my impatient expression. 

Then, finally, he pulled the other towel off the hook and wrapped it around my shoulders, but when I reached for the edge he pulled it away. He just raised an eyebrow and waited for me to go still, and then proceeded to dry me off himself, running the rough fabric down my arms, rubbing my stomach and my thighs and then crouching in front of me to get the backs of my knees, my calves, even my ankles. He smiled up at me. 

When he stood up, I reached for the towel again, but he shook his head and hung it up. 

“You can go call your manager now,” he said evenly. I blinked at him, starting to realize what sort of game we were playing. 

“Okay,” I whispered. I ducked my head meekly and walked back to my bedroom, feeling my arms prickle with goosebumps as cool air hit my damp, bare skin. 

As I made the phone call, Dean collected his clothes from around the room and got dressed. By the time I hung up, he was sitting on the edge of the bed watching me, his expression completely neutral. I hit “end” and stood with my hands at my sides, and I waited. The slightest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“Come here,” he said, and I went. I stood in front of him, between his spread knees, and he took the phone from my grasp and put it on the nightstand before placing his hands lightly on my hips again. His palms were wide and warm and comforting. 

Seated, he was about level with my breastbone. I could feel the faint puff of air when he exhaled. He looked up at me through his eyelashes, still smiling that soft, barely-there smile, and the gold in his eyes sparkled in the bright light streaming through my window. 

The contrasts in him always took me by surprise. For someone who could be so wild, so dangerous, he also had moments of quiet, hesitant sweetness like this: checking in, taking care of me, making sure he hadn’t crossed any lines. 

Back when we met, I felt like I could trust him right away, and now… that instinct had deepened into something like an anchor. We’d been seeing each other for months, but more importantly, he’d seen me vulnerable and wrecked and desperate, and he’d always known exactly what I needed, whether it was water or a break or more, harder, faster. I knew that any time I wanted, I could ask him to stop and he would do so without any hesitation or resentment. 

Which is why, when he told me to kneel, I did it without questioning. 

“So well-behaved,” Dean said, with a smirk. It was still soft around the edges, but I could see him slipping into the mask he wore when we were playing a game. “Such a good pet, trained already. Think you can behave all day?” 

I nodded, feeling a twist of heat in my belly. 

“You don’t do anything until I tell you today. You’re mine. You will stay quiet, and you’ll take what you’re given, and you’ll let me take care of you. Do you understand?” 

I nodded again. 

“Speak.” 

“Yes. I understand.” 

“Have you done this before?” he asked, softer now. “Speak.” I thought back to past boyfriends, hook-ups, their attempts at serious power plays. Some had been too unsure, not quite confident enough to stay in control of the scene. Others, more than I liked to think about, had liked it too much and gone too far, had taken me apart and forgotten to put me back together afterward. 

Dean, though… Dean was different. Dean was always so fucking different. 

“Not like this,” I answered. 

“Do you want to?” 

I nodded. 

“Okay,” he said. “Where do you keep your toys?” 

I pointed to the nightstand drawer. He placed a hand on my shoulder, pressing gently, until I scooted backward, still on my knees, and then pressed the crown of my head until I bent it, looking down at the floor. Dean slid away and I heard the drawer open. He rummaged for a moment before the drawer closed, and then he walked back, stopping behind me.

“If you want out, safeword is ‘starships.’ If you can’t speak, tap me three times.” 

I nodded. He cupped my cheek with one big hand, oddly tender, his thumb resting in the hollow behind my ear, and I leaned gratefully into the touch. Then it was gone, and he was tugging a thick, smooth strip of cloth down over my eyes: a blindfold. I’d gotten it years ago and only used it a couple times, neither of them particularly enjoyable, but with Dean’s careful fingers adjusting the fit, it seemed a lot more promising. 

With the blindfold secured, my world went totally dark, not even a sliver of light creeping through at the edges. I shivered, becoming aware of every bit of sensory input: my knees starting to complain, my heartbeat loud in my ears, every draft of air running over my bare skin, and Dean standing so very still behind me.

“Breathe,” Dean commanded, and I did, carefully. He rested a hand on the top of my head and stroked lightly, like he was petting me. “Good girl. Again.” 

He waited while I inhaled, shakily, four more times, and I could feel my heartbeat starting to slow. 

“Stand up,” Dean said. I tried to get to my feet and stumbled almost immediately, too disoriented to keep my balance, but his hands were under my arms to steady me before I could fall. My head spun. It was already so much, having to rely on him like this; everything was dark and strange and out of my control, and Dean was the only thing keeping me steady. 

I straightened up, trying to get my bearings, and then Dean was tugging at me, moving me as if I was a doll. He pulled my wrists together behind my back and nudged until I laced my fingers together, staying in place like he’d cuffed me, and with a hand around both my wrists, he rotated me gently and pushed until I started to walk forward, moving toward what I thought was the door. 

I’d walked through the hallway in the dark so many times that it wasn’t too strange, but my steps were still small and hesitant, more of a shuffle, because I didn’t want to pick my feet up; it felt like I’d lose the floor and just free-fall if I stepped in the wrong place. Even more surreal was the fact that I was still naked. It was like so many nightmares, except for the guiding pressure of Dean’s grip. 

“Doing so good,” Dean said softly in my ear. “Just a few more steps. I’ve got you. Deep breaths.” 

I hadn’t realized, until he said it, that my heart was racing again, my chest heaving shallowly as I panted. My body had gone into fight-or-flight mode without my permission. I listened for the sound of his footsteps just behind mine, his steady breathing, and I felt better. 

“Down,” Dean said, still holding my wrists together, and I almost fell again as I tried to kneel. With his help, I found my balance. “All the way,” he prompted. I sat back on my heels, and then with a slight push on my shoulder, he folded me forward until my forehead was touching the rough living room carpet. I could already feel the weave of it imprinting itself in my knees, but I settled into it, trying to get comfortable, still holding my hands behind my back like he’d tied them in place. 

“Good girl.” He ran a hand down my back, soothing and slow. “Stay.” 

I heard his footsteps retreating, and I had to fight back a needy, unhappy whine. I could hear him distantly for a few minutes, just a few sounds here and there, a cabinet door opening and closing, water running. Then he was back, footsteps comfortingly close for just a moment, and I heard the clink of a glass on the coffee table before he was leaving again. 

It didn’t take long at all before I was struggling to hold the position. My whole body was straining for input, trying to track his movements, nerves going haywire at every tiny sound. My shoulders ached. The carpet itched against my forehead and my knees and goosebumps prickled down my spine, and I was so tense it was like my skin had shrunk in the wash. 

I didn’t move. 

The toilet flushed. The water ran and stopped. Dean’s footsteps approached and paused again. 

“Look at you,” he said approvingly, and my entire body felt warm at the praise. The discomfort faded into the background. I waited for him to touch me again, to come closer, even just to correct my posture, but instead I heard the quiet electronic whirring of the TV coming to life, and then the ever-so-faint whisper of fabric and couch springs. 

The sudden burst of music was startling. When I realized that it was the opening credits of a movie, something vaguely familiar, my stomach went cold with surprise, quickly followed by impatience. I waited for Dean to say something, some indication of his plans, another order, but there was no indication that he was paying any attention to me. I might as well have not existed. 

It felt like torture, kneeling there with my fingers starting to go miserably numb. The first fifteen-or-so minutes felt like hours. There was no way I could last through an entire movie. 

“Breathe,” Dean reminded me again. “In. Nice and easy. Out. There you go.” 

I breathed. In, out. In and out. 

Gradually, my senses started to level out, to adjust and settle into the small, dark space that felt like my entire world. In. Out. The movie soundtrack seemed to go fuzzy and indistinct, less important than the blood rushing in my ears and the breath expanding my lungs. In. Out. 

“You’re being so good for me,” Dean reassured, his voice low and rumbling over the dialogue, and I could feel the words echoing through my skull. The pride in his voice made me glow with satisfaction. 

I heard him shifting, and then his fingertips were grazing my skin, right between my shoulder blades. I shuddered. The barely-there touch felt electric. He kept going, drawing patterns around the knobs of my spine, letting his fingers trail slowly up and down, and the world faded. Nothing was important except Dean, the warm rough pads of his fingers, the tingles that flared wherever he touched. 

“Good girl,” he repeated. I could feel the rumble of it in my bones. 

He pulled his hand away, but the warmth stayed, my skin humming with the vibrations of his voice and the lingering ghosts of his touch. I focused on those, and everything else fell away. I breathed. In and out, slow and steady. I couldn’t quite follow the lines of the movie any more. In. Out. Easy. 

I wasn’t sure how long it was before he knelt next to me again, flattening a palm over my lower back, caressing slowly. “Up,” he whispered, close enough to my ear that I could feel the displaced air. I sat up, dizzy and content and practically floating away, and he held something cold to my lips. Glass. Water. He tilted it slowly, and I took a tiny sip, then another. 

“There you go.” His voice was honey-sweet and comforting. “There you go, one more. Look at you.” He pulled the glass away and set it down, and pressed me back down until my forehead brushed the floor again. The weight of his palm on my lower back was hypnotic. He rubbed slow circles into my skin and I wanted to purr, to arch into it, but I felt too heavy and boneless. 

I was still. My mind cleared and went completely empty. Dean moved away, but I barely noticed. He would come back. I would wait. In, out, slow, steady. 

I didn’t notice when the movie ended. It went silent, so Dean must’ve turned off the TV at some point. I heard distant footsteps. 

“That’s my girl,” Dean was saying, suddenly close. “Stand up for me, now.” He helped me up again, held me with an arm around my waist as I listed to the side and almost stumbled, pins and needles prickling painfully through my legs. I whimpered. There were faint patterns of light and color dancing in the darkness behind my eyelids, swimming dizzily. 

Dean guided me to the couch, pressing me down so I could sit on the edge of the cushion. I almost toppled over. 

“You can let go now,” he said. “Let go. Here.” He took my wrists gently and pulled my hands apart. I’d forgotten they were still clasped behind my back. They were cramped and stiff, and my shoulders were knotted painfully. I sat, still and content, while Dean massaged my hands, one and then the other, a grounding point of pressure in the strange swirling blackness around me. 

He made me drink more water, and then I heard him settling on the couch next to me. 

“Such a good pet.” He pulled me sideways so I slumped over, and I felt rough denim under my cheek. I hummed happily. “Legs up. Gonna take care of you, okay? There. Comfortable?” I curled up with my head on his thigh and sighed, and he stroked my hair carefully, slowly, the rise and fall of his hand settling into the same rhythm as my breath. I felt safe, so fucking safe, safe and warm and cared for. 

“Do you want me to take this off?” he asked eventually, running his fingers over the silky fabric at my temple. “Speak.” 

“No,” I breathed. “No, please.” 

His fingers curled into my hair, scratching behind my ear for a moment, and then he traced my jaw, running his thumb along the bone and then down to my mouth, rubbing at my lower lip. I flicked my tongue over his knuckle, then sucked lightly. I could hear his breathing going ragged. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” he said softly. It was calm and even, no hint of possessiveness. 

I didn’t hesitate. “You.” 

“That’s right. So you’re going to do whatever I tell you, right?” 

“Yes.” 

He rubbed my lower lip again, then trailed his hand lower, wrapping it around my neck. I tilted my head back to give him better access. 

“I think I want your mouth, right now,” he said. 

I flushed, feeling my body respond with a strange sort of detachment, as if it were someone else pressing their legs together and squirming. He helped me sit up straight again, and I heard him standing, heard the rustle of fabric, his shirt hitting the ground, the slide of his zipper. 

“On your knees,” he said, and I eased hesitantly down from the couch, groping out blindly to keep myself steady. “Hands behind your back again.” 

I clasped them there, focusing on breathing: in, out. In, out. I could hear the faint dry whisper of skin on skin, Dean touching himself, judging whether I was ready for him. I licked my lips and let my mouth fall open. 

He wasn’t completely hard, not yet, but I didn’t mind. It meant I could sink down all the way, feel the velvety skin growing hot and filling out, with my lips pressed all the way to the base, tickled by wiry hair. I took a deep breath, surrounded by the smell and taste and feel of him, so familiar now. He groaned when I sucked, bobbing my head quickly and then pulling back slow. It didn’t take long before he was fully hard and I had to ease back, moving more carefully. 

“I know you can take it,” he said, keeping his voice level even though I could hear the strain in it. He tangled both hands in my hair and tugged just enough to sting. I had enough time to take a deep breath before he was rocking forward smoothly, holding my head in place. I almost choked the first time he slid in fully, but he didn’t stop.

“That’s my good girl,” he crooned, pulling harder on my hair. Something about the praise or the pain, maybe both, sent me spiraling back out into that trance-like state all over again. I relaxed and opened my throat and let him use me. 

I could feel tears soaking through the blindfold, spit sliding down my chin, my lips already bruised and sore, but all that mattered was the way he was moaning. My breath was a quick ragged gasp every time he pulled back, but I focused on the rhythm: in, out. In and out, again and again, and he was thrusting slow and even until he couldn’t any more, until his hips stuttered and sped up, and then he was babbling half-formed endearments, nonsense words, telling me how perfect I was, how good my hot wet mouth felt, and I was so high on it that it felt like heaven when he came, even as I choked and struggled to swallow, senses flooded with the intensity of the bitter, heavy taste. 

I couldn’t swallow all of it, and I felt a few drops sliding down my chin, wet and messy. I took deep, heaving breaths and waited. 

“So incredible,” Dean sighed. “So fucking good.” 

The words swam slowly through my blissed-out mind and I hummed, pressing into his hands where they were still cupped around the back of my head. I heard Dean dropping to his knees and then he was stroking my face gently, cradling my cheeks in his huge palms, wiping at my chin with something soft, still murmuring sweet, incoherent things. 

“Hands around my neck,” he said, and then he scooped me up and stood like it was nothing, so suddenly that I was dizzy. I buried my nose in his neck and focused on breathing again. 

He set me down carefully on what felt like my kitchen counter. I heard running water and then there was a glass at my lips, and I sipped it gratefully, the coolness sliding over my bruised, swollen lips and soothing my throat. Gradually, I started to come back to myself. Everything still felt hazy and strange, like I’d been drugged, but my hands weren’t shaking quite so hard. Dean set the glass down and opened the fridge, took a couple steps back toward me, put something on the counter with a clink, closed the fridge. 

It felt like I was attuned to his every movement, now; I could feel the way he was passing through my space in every vibration and every ghostly current of air. It was easy to pay attention when this, him and me and the space between us, was my entire world. 

“Open,” he instructed. I felt something cold and sweet on my tongue, and I chewed cautiously. A strawberry, or half a strawberry, cut and ready in a way that meant he’d prepared it earlier, when I was first kneeling on the living room floor. For some reason, that realization made my stomach swoop uncomfortably, and I flushed hot. The fact that he’d cared enough, had planned this out and thought ahead, to make sure all my needs would be anticipated and met… 

Dean fed me strawberries and made me drink more water. “More food? There’s apples, cheese, a pear, got everything cut up and ready if you want it.”

I shook my head. I was grateful for the blindfold; Dean couldn’t see the wetness gathering in my eyes. 

“Bathroom?” 

I shook my head again. 

Deep breaths. In and out. 

“C’mere then.” He bundled me into his arms again, lifting me easily, and I clung to his neck gratefully and inhaled deep, taking in the smell of him, sweat and sex and a lingering trace of my soap. I was trembling again. 

“Gonna take care of you, okay?” he murmured against my hair. He was using the tone of voice you’d take with a skittish animal, low and soothing. “Been so good for me, sweetheart, let me take care of you.” 

He laid me down on my bed, and I felt the mattress dip as he settled down next to me. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said hoarsely. I didn’t answer, but he didn’t seem to expect me to. 

Dean brushed his knuckles down my jaw and traced my lip again, now puffy and sore. His fingers trailed down my neck, caressed the dip at the hollow of my throat, and then he flattened his hand over my heart, pausing there. I was acutely conscious of my pulse racing. He brushed his hand lower, tracing the curve of my breast, then up my breastbone, then over to my other side, light and gentle and overwhelming. 

He stroked the round of my shoulder, drew spirals down my arm, ran the very tips of his fingers over the thin, sensitive skin of my wrist, back and forth over my pulse point, and then slowly, so slowly, down to my hand. It felt like he was tracing the lines there, trying to read my palm as I shivered and sighed. Then his fingers swept up, back up my arm, across my collarbone, and he repeated the same maddeningly slow pattern down my other arm. 

Fingertips grazed my nipple, swirling in a circle just shy of the hard, pebbled peak. He brushed down the center of my body, skirting my belly-button, dipping down and rubbing the soft roll of skin there. He caressed my hips, the ridges of my stretch marks, the little dimple below my hipbone, and then lower, teasing ever so briefly before moving to my other side. I felt like I was floating, weightless and limp. My nerve endings sang wherever he touched me. 

He touched my thighs, the smaller stretch marks there, and I’d felt self-conscious about those before, but now it didn’t seem to matter. He ran his fingers over the crease where my leg met my hip, all the way down. He was so close to where I wanted him, and I arched up a little, waiting, but he curled his fingers and brushed a knuckle up the center of my lower lips, feather-light, then back and forth over the skin a couple inches above my clit where it did nothing but tickle and tease. I groaned at that and spread my legs wider. 

He ran his whole hand down my inner thigh, calluses dragging over my skin, and swirled his fingers in circles around my knee like he was using a paintbrush. He stroked my shin and traced the bony knob of my ankle, and he moved to the other leg: circle, up, around, up, up, so fucking close. I was panting, shaking with the effort of keeping still. 

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, and he kissed away my whimper. He eased his body over mine, hovering carefully, and lowered himself against me, torturously slow, until I was blanketed by hot smooth skin, the weight of him the only thing that kept me from floating away while he kissed me. His mouth on my swollen lips was as gentle as his hands had been on my skin. I slid my hands up his back, pulling him closer, feeling muscles bunch and roll in his shoulders as he kissed me until I was delirious with it. 

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he said, words muffled in the skin under my jaw. I whined. “Not yet, at least. Not yet.” He mouthed down the side of my neck, nibbling and sucking in all the spots he knew would drive me crazy. My entire body was liquid heat, oversensitive and raw and perfect. He nipped my earlobe and whispered, “You’ve been so good, baby, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Want to see you come, can you do that for me?” 

I groaned wordlessly. 

“Speak,” Dean commanded. 

“Yes,” I croaked, my voice strained and cracked. “Yes, please.” 

He kissed me again, tongue dipping gently between my lips, and then he was shifting his weight to move back, move down my body, but the idea of not having him right where he was, pressing down on me solid and safe and anchoring, was unbearable. I choked out a protest, hands clawing at his back as I tried to draw him closer. 

“No?” he asked, and I could hear the concern there. 

“Just-” I gasped. “Just like this, please, please, want you right here.” 

His mouth was hungrier on mine, then, stinging with the force of his kisses, and he snaked a hand down between our bodies carefully, keeping his skin pressed against mine wherever he could. The first gentle pressure at my entrance made me moan and arch up against him. 

“That’s my girl,” he sighed against my ear. His fingers eased into me, slow and deliberate, until the heel of his hand was pressed against my clit. Sparks erupted behind the blindfold. I could feel his touch through my entire body, a rolling curl of pleasure like a long exhale, all the way down to my toes. His fingers slipped out and stroked up, down, sliding easily over slick skin, and the he thrust back in, strong and steady, in and out, nothing urgent or rushed, the heat in my core simmering out through my skin. 

Dean was whispering, little nonsense fragments: “So good, always feel so fucking good, you have no idea. No idea how you looked, all spaced-out, that fucking mouth just open and waiting for me, fucking perfect… love touching you, love making you feel good, I just…” 

His fingers pressed deep inside me. He didn’t pull away, this time, just rolled his hips, and his hand crushed between us rolled with it, grinding slippery-wet against my clit. The tension that had been building, slow and easy, was suddenly rippling through me hard and fast. My entire body shuddered like I’d been shocked. 

“That’s it,” Dean gasped. He rocked his hips again. “Right there, that’s it, come for me, let me see you, baby. Come for me.” Once more, sweet hot pressure building, then twice, cresting, and then three times, and it spiked all at once, blinding, a drawn-out explosion that paralyzed me for a moment as my body was wracked with wave after wave of shivery-hot electricity. 

I felt feverish and strung-out as I twisted through the aftershocks. Dean was trembling too, a sweaty perfect weight, his fingers twitching slightly where they were still inside me. He pressed clumsy kisses into my neck and cheeks and then my mouth, muffling the broken, choked-off noises that kept escaping my lips. 

I clung to him, fingernails digging crescents into his shoulders, but he didn’t make any move to roll off of me. His hand slipped away, making me sigh, but he stayed, and even though I could feel how hard he was, digging into my hip, he just stroked my cheek and let me shake until I started to come down. 

“Was that okay?” he asked. It wasn’t his scene voice, just him, vulnerable and quiet. 

“Yeah,” I breathed. “God, fucking… yeah, Dean, so good. You’re -” 

The word “perfect” caught on my tongue, even though it was something close to the truth. 

“So good,” he repeated, and the tenderness in his voice stunned me. Something in me cracked open, something terrifying, and my heart started to pound against my ribcage like it wanted to escape. 

“Dean -” I said, strained around the sudden tightness in my throat. 

“You need a break. I should take this off,” he whispered, running his fingers over the blindfold. 

“No,” I said, before I could think about it. “Please, no, not yet, just… not yet.” My whole body went cold at the idea. I was afraid that if he took off the blindfold, he’d see too much.

Maybe he could hear the panic in my voice, because he didn’t protest. 

“Not going anywhere, just getting comfortable, okay?” he said quietly, and I was grateful for it when I felt him shift, settling on his back. He pulled me against him so I could curl into his side, safe and secure under his arm, and he ran a hand over my hair, soothing. 

I breathed, in and out, not thinking about the strange raw ache in my chest. 

“There you go. It’s okay, I’ve got you. That’s my girl.” 

In, out. In and out. The panic subsided. My breathing slowed. 

“Rest. I’m not going anywhere,” Dean said softly. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Right here with you. Sleep. You’re safe with me.”


	10. Nine

I’m not sure how long I rested like that, floating in a strange pitch-black half-conscious state, with Dean’s arms around me, Dean’s hand cupped protectively at the nape of my neck, Dean’s heartbeat slow and steady in my ear. I was still hyper-aware of every bit of sensory input; my bare skin felt like it had been scrubbed clean until it was fresh and raw and new, and my body was humming with the rush of it. But in my head, the usual chaotic noise was gone. I felt utterly peaceful.

Every so often, a faint little jitter of panic would tug at my chest. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t let it in. I focused on Dean’s breathing, and on my breathing, in and out. I focused on his heartbeat and his heat, and I didn’t let myself think, and the anxiety melted away again.

Eventually, though, Dean started to stir. He made a content, sleepy noise against the top of my head. I was quiet, reluctant to move too quickly and risk breaking whatever spell we’d fallen under.

“You okay?” he murmured, and the hand on my neck curled and shifted, calluses rubbing tiny circles into the delicate skin there. A rush of goosebumps cascaded down my spine.

“‘M good,” I whispered.

“Need anything?” His voice was low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest and out, into my skin and bones.

“No.”

There was silence, and I could hear the weight of it, hear Dean choosing his words.

“Thank you,” he said eventually. So simple, but it hit me like a punch to the gut.

“Thank you,” I managed. “You always… nobody’s ever… you take such good care of me.”

It was a fucking pathetic summary of the trust, the safety, the overwhelming rightness of what I felt with him.

“It’s what I do,” he said. “I take care of people. It’s all I can do.” There was a hint of acid in his voice, but he stroked my hair, softening the edge of the words. When he spoke again, I could hear a smile: “It’s different with you, though. I like that you let me take care of you.”

I wriggled, trying to get closer, even though I was already wrapped around him like an octopus, plastered against his bare side with one leg hooked over his waist. I pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the nearest bit of salty skin I could reach.

Dean drew in a breath and held it for a second, hesitating. “Life’s been pretty tough recently,” he said, all in a rush. “It’s all pretty fucked up, and you just… you make it so much better. I don’t know what I would’ve done, these last few months, if I hadn’t met you.”

I was grateful for the black cocoon of the blindfold, the safety of darkness. I could barely keep my voice from cracking. “You too.”

“C’mere,” he said hoarsely, and shifted, curling into me until he could tilt my chin up and kiss me gently. It was sweet, almost chaste, the way his lips pillowed against mine. When I smiled he kissed one upturned corner of my mouth, then the other.

He was touching me like I was fragile, spun glass and spiderwebs fragile, hands running carefully down my shoulders, up my sides, and then resting at the small of my back. He didn’t pull me closer, and he didn’t deepen the kiss. Even when his tongue traced the seam of my lips, parting them gently and licking into my mouth, it was different.

It was shy like a first time. It was shy like Dean and I had never, ever been. It wasn’t a step, it wasn’t a beginning, it wasn’t meant to lead us elsewhere. It was just us, enjoying the moment for exactly what it was. Each warm lazy slide of his tongue felt like a caress.

We kissed like that until my limbs went liquid and my head spun, and when Dean spoke again, it took me by surprise.

“I’m gonna take this off now,” he said, and in the seconds it took my brain to catch up, deft fingers had tugged the blindfold off and I blinked, squinting into the light.

It’s funny, how you think you can know someone. From far away you can see eyes and limbs and a smile, can catalog them by color or shape or even just the feeling they spark in your gut. You understand the basic mechanics of how their body is put together.

You think you know them, and then you get closer, and those broad strokes seem like nothing. You start to notice the moles and freckles and the way their eyelashes catch the light. You can pick out their posture in a crowd. You learn the ripples of gold in their irises, the way they sigh in their sleep… the intimate details, things you can only catalog when you’ve spent time naked and wrapped around each other. You think you can see the whole picture.

In that moment, though, every familiar detail of Dean seemed to add up to something completely alien. It was nothing to do with his smile (still that same broad sparkling grin) and it was nothing to do with his eyes (still that unique dazzling green) and it wasn’t anything else I could put to words. But something new and strange and shocking was shining all over his face. Something was unmistakably different, and my world was knocked off its axis.

He stroked my cheek tenderly, scanning my expression, taking care of me like he always did. Familiar.

The too-full thing swelling in the vicinity of my heart? Not so familiar. It was choking me.

“Still good?” he asked.

I wanted to scream no. I wanted to burrow under his skin and hide in his ribcage, to learn my way around every molecule of him, to never, ever let him go.

Instead, I kissed him. There was nothing shy about it, this time. I rolled onto my back, pulling him on top of me, and the kiss turned to something fierce, all teeth and heat, and I was clawing at his biceps, his shoulders, his back, anything to get him closer. Something in me was threatening to crack open, and Dean was the only thing holding me together.

The details ran together, lost focus, came in quick impressionistic bursts. That was his stubble, dragging down my neck, a quick rough rasp, and then it was eclipsed by the fiery-wet slide of his mouth, nerve endings humming soft and then singing bright at the sudden sharp sting of teeth. That was his heartbeat, or maybe mine, thudding loud over the hiss of his breath rushing in his lungs like ocean waves receding. That was a kaleidoscope of color, a flash of emerald and grass, the peachy glow of too-close skin, velvet-pink mouth, the swirls of gold-black-bright-white when I squeezed my eyes closed because it was too much, too much to feel-see-hear all at once.

There were words crowding my throat, dangerous words that I couldn’t let myself say. I kissed him, biting at his lips, until the crush of his mouth made speech impossible.

Everything blurred and sped up, turned desperate, turned to gasps and a pulse-pounding riot of skin against skin, a whimper (mine) and a deep, low groan (his), and then hands, a tug, hitching my leg around his waist, arching and pushing up against him, breathless, ready, and then the stretch, the wet slick ache, until he was deep, thick and hot and so fucking deep, and -

“Look at me,” Dean said, and when I did, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark and huge, and his mouth had gone slack. His mask of control had dropped like it always did when he got lost in the moment, when he snapped and let go. This time, though, there was nothing feral about it. It was just open, naked and trusting, and so fucking beautiful.

I thought suddenly of Wile E. Coyote, running happily off the edge of a cliff, confident until the second he looks down. There was a shiver of panic in my chest and open air under my feet.

Dean tangled a hand in my hair and kissed me one more time, and then his eyes were locked with mine again and he was moving, rolling his hips, pressing into me until I was so full, so fucking complete, that everything else was obliterated. I wrapped my legs around his waist, arched up to meet his next thrust, and surrendered to the things he made me feel. I let myself free-fall.

He went slow at first, sliding inch by inch, but there was nothing gentle or shy about it. I could feel muscles shifting and rolling as I ran my hands up his back, feel hot bare skin and the sheer force of his body surging against mine, sinuous and graceful but so fucking strong that each thrust made my toes curl. Every little twist and grind seemed to drive him deeper, until he was closer than I’d ever realized another person could be.

It was too much. I couldn’t hold on, couldn’t hold back, couldn’t make sense of anything but the molten heat coiling through my limbs.

“Dean,” I head myself pant. “Need you.” His answering moan came with a rough, uncontrollable jerk of his hips.

From there, everything went frantic and fiery. I couldn’t tell whose heartbeat was pounding in my ears or whose ragged, shaky breath was catching on a guttural cry every time we came together. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the perfect friction where our bodies were connected.

I was shuddering and begging, so close to shattering. Each thrust was a full-body throb of pleasure, a jolt of electricity crackling and simmering through my veins, rattling my bones, shooting lightning out to the very tips of my fingers until my skin couldn’t hold it any more.

Dean was gasping out my name, harsh and broken, and I could feel the split-second he lost control, feel his cock pulse against some secret spot inside me, but then the world was gone in a white-hot flash and I was falling again. I was falling, spinning out into the whirling blackness of space, and it was so perfect and dizzying that I thought I would fall forever.

The crash of a landing never came. I floated back down to Earth gradually, shivery with aftershocks and giddy with the chemical buzz of a postcoital high.

I was still wrapped around Dean, holding him tight. His forehead was resting against mine. I could just make out the dazed curl of his smile. He kissed me, and it tasted like a promise.

_You’re safe. I’ve got you._

\-----

Trading kisses and basking in the afterglow somehow turned to tickling and shrieking and breathless laughter, and then we were toppling off the edge of my bed in an ungainly tangle of blankets, crashing to the floor, and landing in such a way that Dean’s elbow connected with my stomach and reminded me (painfully) that my bladder existed.

“I’m about to make you the best damn burger you’ve ever tasted,” he called after me as I padded naked and unsteady to the hallway.

“Make me the whole fucking cow, I’m starving,” I tossed back. My knees were wobbling. I closed the bathroom door behind me and leaned back against it, pressing the heels of my hands into my cheeks where they hurt from smiling.

I remembered looking in the mirror, after that first night with Dean. I remembered poking at the bruises he’d left, admiring the way they decorated my skin in shades of red and purple, and the expression on my face: shell-shocked, shaky.

This time, my reflection looked like it belonged to a different person altogether. My pupils were blown and my cheeks were flushed. My lips, for all that they looked swollen and used, curved up in a grin I couldn’t seem to control. I was glowing.

_You’re safe. I’ve got you._

Falling’s not so scary when you can trust someone to catch you.


	11. Interlude (9.5)

“Okay, there’s one,” I said, taking a bite of my ice cream sundae. “Never have I ever done the whole sexy food thing.” 

Dean grinned at me. He had a smudge of chocolate syrup at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a suggestion? I could get a towel…” 

“Don’t even think about it, that’s just a recipe for a fucking infection. You’ve got a -” I gestured with my spoon and he licked his lips lasciviously, smearing the chocolate even worse. 

“Yeah, kinda overrated,” he said. “Just sticky.”

We were sitting cross-legged and naked in the tangled wreckage of my sheets, bowls on our laps. Maybe not the most dignified way to eat, but as far as midnight snacks go, it was pretty much perfect. 

“Ow, brain freeze,” I muttered, rubbing my temple. 

“You’re way too used to putting big things in your mouth,” he smirked. “Gotta learn when to slow down.” 

I giggled and shook my head at him in mock disappointment. “You had to go there, huh? Okay, your turn.” 

“Hmm. Never have I ever been married.” He looked at me expectantly, like he already knew the answer, and I rolled my eyes. 

“Been there, done that, not worth the paperwork. How’d you guess?” 

“You had a tan line on your ring finger when we met. What was the story?” 

“No big story,” I shrugged. “It only lasted six months. Just said yes because it seemed like the thing to do, and then at some point I realized he was dead boring.” 

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made me want to tackle him and kiss him senseless. “Fair enough.” 

“Okay, let’s see... never have I ever had a threesome.” 

“Really? You’re missing out.” 

“Yeah, I’m definitely not opposed,” I confessed. 

He gave me a wolfish grin. “Yeah? I bet we could make that happen.” 

“Sure, fuck it,” I said impulsively. “Why not.” 

“Girl? Guy?” 

“I assumed you meant with another girl,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him. “But…” 

He shrugged. “Try anything once, right? Either way.” 

I was having that overwhelming urge to kiss-tackle him again. “Do you have someone in mind?” 

“Nah. We should just go out, see what happens. We make a good-looking team, right? Shouldn’t be too hard.” He winked. 

Dean set our bowls carefully on the nightstand, and before he could even twist back around to face me I was in his lap. 

“You missed a spot,” I mumbled, and sucked a trace of chocolate from his lower lip. “Good thing you’ve got me to clean you up.” 

He stretched out on his back and pulled me down on top of him, sighing as I licked my way down his neck. “Hmm. ‘Clean’ doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it, but yeah. Good thing I’ve got you.”


	12. Ten

It wasn’t that I missed him. Not exactly. My bed had just felt empty, the last four nights; my little house felt cold and dull and not quite right. I hadn’t felt quite right. 

He’d slipped away early in the morning, when I could barely see his smile in the grey pre-dawn light. I’d woken up to sweet, soft kisses, words whispered against my lips: “I have to go.” 

If I’d asked him to stay longer, pulled him closer, that was only because I’d still been half-asleep. He’d been so warm. I’d been so comfortable. It was only natural not to want him to go. 

I took my time getting ready, wriggling into my tiniest dress. We’d decided to go to a club downtown, the sort of place I’d usually avoid like the plague, but it was where people went if they wanted to drink and flirt and go home with a stranger. Or two strangers, maybe. 

If I’d been counting down the hours until he picked me up, well, that was only because we had fun plans. I tried to imagine how the evening would unfold, whether we’d actually meet anyone, whether we’d be interested in the same people. 

If my stomach swooped when I thought about Dean kissing someone else… well. I couldn’t really explain that away. I just chose not to think about it. 

I lined my eyes, curled my hair, and counted down the minutes. 

\-----

The place was packed, from the large dancefloor to the sleek metal bar. Everything was polished and modern-looking, with low recessed lights that slowly cycled through different colors. There were a variety of small tables around the bar, surrounded by women in high heels and well-dressed men, talking and drinking and flirting. 

I fought the urge to wrinkle my nose. I missed my grimy, sticky, raucous roadhouse. 

Dean must’ve read the look on my face because he chuckled, wrapping an arm around my waist and giving me a little squeeze. 

“So,” I started, looking around. “Whatcha think?” 

“First things first,” he said firmly, and steered us over to the bar. 

When the bartender passed us our incredibly overpriced whiskey, Dean raised his glass in a toast. We both drained half our drinks in one go. 

“Well then,” Dean said. He put his arm around me again, and we turned to survey the crowd together. 

“It’s hard when they’re all in uniform,” I murmured. Every girl in view was wearing a variation on the same bandage skirt/silk blouse/stilettos theme. 

“God, you’re right,” he said, smirking. The light shifted from purple to green, and his eyes seemed to sparkle even brighter than usual. 

Dean stood out from the crowd, but in the best way. He was wearing dark jeans and a plain white t-shirt under a soft, battered leather jacket, and he should’ve looked so underdressed, compared to the button-downs around us, but with his confident smile and his lips and his fucking cheekbones, he just looked like an off-duty rockstar. It was proving sort of impossible to stop myself from staring. 

As for me… well, whatever. I didn’t look as polished as so many of these women, and I was definitely not wearing heels, but Dean’s slack-jawed look of admiration when he’d picked me up had been more than enough confirmation that I looked okay. Still, it was hard not to compare myself to some of the people around us. 

Dean was studying me, head tilted to the side, watching me as I watched the crowd. He leaned in close, holding me against his side, and I relaxed into it, resting my head on his shoulder. 

“What’s your type?” I asked. 

“You,” he answered immediately, and I rolled my eyes. 

“No, seriously.” 

“I am serious. Confident, takes no shit, witty, beautiful, easygoing.” He paused and added, playfully, “Whiskey drinker.” 

I looked up at him, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He was smiling that gorgeous, easy smile, but the intensity in his eyes reminded me suddenly of the night we’d met, when he’d stared me down with so much electric energy that I felt like we were the only people in the room, or maybe the world. 

Here we were, so many months and drinks and smiles later, and the connection between us still felt like grabbing an exposed wire. 

There were no easy words for what I was feeling, so I kissed him. We’d never really needed words to communicate anyway. 

When I tried to pull back, Dean’s mouth chased mine and his hand at the small of my back urged me closer. I couldn’t help but melt into the kiss, molding myself against the planes of his chest, tasting whiskey with the sweet slide of his tongue against mine, and then his teeth dragged over my lower lip in a way that made me shiver and wish we weren’t in public. It took a massive amount of willpower to finally tear myself away. 

“Right,” Dean said, low and husky. “Where were we?” 

I gave him one last lingering kiss. “No idea.” 

“You were going to tell me your type,” he said with a grin. 

“Was I?” I asked reluctantly. “Well… it’s so fucking cliche, but definitely the whole bad boy thing. Leather jacket. You know.” 

Dean gestured at his own jacket, pointedly raising his eyebrows, and I rolled my eyes and fought back a smile. 

“Yeah, nailed it.” I looked out at the crowd. “Most of the guys here, though… not so much.” 

“How about her?” Dean asked. “Two o’clock, red lipstick.” 

I snuck a glance in that direction. “Meh. Um… the blonde, over there.” 

The woman was close to fucking flawless. I watched Dean checking her out, eyes flicking over her wide eyes and the curves of her hips. He tilted his head, considering. Something in my stomach squirmed. 

“Too much makeup,” he said finally. I shot him a disbelieving look, which he ignored. He jerked his chin to our left. “That guy in the black v-neck.” 

“I can guarantee he smells like Axe and ego,” I giggled. “Eleven o’clock, redhead. How do you feel about redheads?” 

He shrugged. “She’s okay.” 

“She’s fucking gorgeous, Dean, come on,” I snapped, feeling a flash of inexplicable irritation. 

He was running a hand through his hair, sheepish, with a half-smile I couldn’t read. “Guess I’m picky.” 

The annoyance dissipated, leaving something like guilt in its wake. I sidled closer, snaking an arm around him in a silent apology. 

“Well,” I said dubiously. “We could -” 

“Dance with me,” Dean interrupted. He set his empty glass down on the bar. 

“Yeah, okay,” I agreed, relieved. He grabbed my hand and led the way. 

It wasn’t anything I’d normally listen to, but at least the song had a good rhythm. Dean pulled me close, hands on my waist, and I twined my arms around his neck, swaying and rolling my hips as we moved together, finding the beat. 

The bass was building, throbbing and surging. Around us, bodies were pulsing and undulating, couples grinding together shamelessly. I closed my eyes, leaning into Dean, and let the music take over. 

It wasn’t long before our easy rhythm turned into something hotter, looser, both of us flushed and sweating. The vibrations of the bass seemed to shiver through my whole body. I looked down, watching Dean’s hips move, and realized with a sharp hot spike of arousal that it was the same way he moved when he fucked me, right down to the little twisting motion that always made my eyes roll back in my head. 

Dean’s skin was sheened with perspiration. A bead of sweat was gathering in the hollow of his neck and, impulsively, I leaned forward and licked it off, tasting salt. His grip on my waist tightened, like he couldn’t help himself. 

I was suddenly and acutely aware of how empty I felt; all I could think about was how Dean would feel inside me, thick and hot and hard, if I was on top of him, riding him to this same dirty beat. 

He leaned in and kissed me, deep and filthy, and his hands slid down to my ass and hauled me even closer, slotting one of his knees between mine. I almost lost my balance, but he held me tight and straightened up a little, pulling me with him so that I was straddling his leg. The height difference meant that most of my weight was on his thigh, and the blunt pressure between my legs made me whimper. It took all of my willpower not to rub against him shamelessly, like a cat in heat. I buried my face in the side of his neck and bit back a moan.

He picked up the beat again, rocking his hips slowly, and every shift of his weight felt like fireworks. I clung tight and moved with him, trying to be discreet, trying not to writhe and beg the way I wanted to. I could see the corner of Dean’s smile, when I turned my head. Smug bastard. 

“Fucking hell, Dean,” I said hoarsely, and nipped at his earlobe. I pushed down against him, squirming at the friction, the heat of it, hoping to hell that the people around us couldn’t see what was going on, and this time I didn’t hold back the moan; I let him hear it, panting his name right against his ear, and I felt him shiver. He adjusted my position again, holding me in place with strong hands (and fuck, I would never get over that, the way he could manhandle me) and I felt the hard line of his cock through his jeans. 

I stopped trying to hold on to the rhythm and let go, pressing myself mindlessly into him, too far gone to really care about being discreet. Every movement was bringing me closer and closer to one hell of an orgasm. I could feel it building, everything going tight and expectant, tension ratcheting higher and higher, until I had to hide my face in the crook of his neck, muffling my groan by biting the sweat-slick skin. 

And then the song ended. The song ended, and Dean, smooth motherfucker that he was, straightened up and set me down so easily I barely understood what was happening. Before I could blink, I was standing on one foot, the other leg supported by Dean’s hand under my knee where it was hitched up at his side. Even though I was so close it almost hurt, I managed to freeze with no more than a twitch of my hips and a whimper. 

I took a step back, feet on the ground again, but kept my hands on his shoulders; I couldn’t bring myself to put too much space between us. Dean was smirking, his eyes heavy-lidded and smoldering, but I could hear the ragged edge in his voice when he leaned in to whisper, “Not yet.” 

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. 

“No, not really,” he half-laughed, and glanced pointedly down as he adjusted himself. “Another drink? I don’t think I can dance with you without… well.” 

I made an embarrassingly whiny noise, but nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. Meet you over there? I’m gonna run to the bathroom.” 

I took my time, trying to calm down a little before I went back out to the bar; I reapplied lipstick, splashed some cold water on the back of my neck, and tried to ignore the uncomfortable ache in my clit. All that frustrated energy was fizzling through my skin, making everything feel tight and itchy and desperate for release. 

When I emerged from the bathroom, I spotted Dean from across the room. He was leaning against the bar, talking to a tall, willowy brunette in a bright red dress. As I watched, she put her hand on his arm and giggled, and he shifted in closer, unmistakably flirting. 

I wasn’t entirely sure how this was supposed to work, and I hesitated for a second before deciding that it’d be better to give him some space. Dean knew how to talk to women, after all. It’s not like he needed my help. 

I settled myself at the bar, positioning myself so that he could see me over the woman’s shoulder, and as I watched, his gaze flickered over to me. He gave me a little half-smile, but didn’t acknowledge me beyond that. Another prickle of annoyance crept through my gut. I shoved it away and turned around to flag down the bartender. 

Someone tapped me on the shoulder as I took the first sip. 

“What are you drinking?” asked a low, smooth voice. I turned cautiously. To my surprise, the guy was good-looking, tall and handsome, in a rugged sort of way that was actually appealing. 

“Jack on the rocks,” I said abruptly, before remembering my manners and shooting him a smile. “You can buy the next round, though.” 

He laughed. “Sounds like a plan. I’m Brandon, by the way.” 

The hand he extended for me to shake was nice and strong, but it was soft. As I introduced myself, I snuck a glance over Brandon’s shoulder. Dean looked thoroughly absorbed in his conversation. I gritted my teeth. 

“So, Brandon, tell me about yourself.” 

“Well, let’s see…” 

I couldn’t focus on the conversation. Under other circumstances, I might’ve taken Brandon home, or at least I would’ve a year ago. He was exactly the flavor of vanilla that would’ve made for one serviceable fuck. 

Brandon talked, and I fidgeted, trying not to look over at Dean. I wasn’t sure what to do. He looked interested in the girl. Maybe I should go over there, introduce myself, make it clear what we were looking for? 

Or maybe Dean was just interested, and she wasn’t interested in me, just in him, and…

This time, I couldn’t ignore the dark, angry twist in my stomach, and I couldn’t find any other word for it but jealousy. 

I smiled wider, leaning in close, and giggled louder. 

Brandon’’s eyes followed my mouth as I drained my glass. I licked my lips suggestively. 

“Let me get you that drink, now,” he said with a smile. He was cute, really, especially when he smiled. I could do so much worse. 

A familiar rough hand curled around my wrist, and my heart thudded against my ribs. 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Dean asked under his breath. 

Brandon looked uncertainly between the two of us. I gave him an apologetic smile and let Dean steer me away.

The club had gotten rowdier, louder, and Dean’s words got lost under a wave of cheers from the dance floor. Someone behind me staggered and stumbled, bumping into me. I narrowly avoided spilling my drink. 

“Just… somewhere quieter,” he mumbled, looking around. He tugged me through the crowd, weaving his way over to a shadowy stretch of wall near the hallway to the bathrooms. He frowned down at the floor, a crease between his eyebrows deepening with every moment that passed. 

“You okay?” I asked, unsettled. 

“I don’t want anyone else,” he blurted out, and finally looked up so that our eyes met. His expression was fierce and sure and also, somehow, scared half to death, and it was like looking in a mirror at the choked, fluttering sensation I’d been trying to ignore for weeks now. 

I blinked at him, trying to process the words. 

“Nobody else,” he said again, more firmly. “Is that okay?” 

I could feel my smile growing as pure, giddy relief fluttered in my chest. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“Yeah?” he asked. Before I could answer he was kissing me, and his hands were tight and insistent on my shoulders like he never wanted to let go. 

“That guy looked like an idiot,” Dean grumbled, when I pulled away to breathe. I giggled. When I looked around, nobody was watching us; we were mostly hidden in the shadows. I stood on tiptoes to capture his mouth with mine again. 

Dean walked me backward until I was against the wall. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, until molten heat was curling through my limbs. I fisted my hands in his shirt and kissed him hungrily, worrying his lower lip between my teeth in a way that made his breath catch. He slid a hand under my thigh like he’d done when we were dancing, hitching it up slightly so that my legs were spread for him, and I could feel my body responding, arching up instinctively to meet him. 

Dean’s other hand wrapped around my neck. There was something so possessive and demanding about it, the way his fingers pressed just hard enough to make me feel powerless, and a jolt of need snaked through my core. His grip tightened slightly and my hips twitched forward. 

“Should’ve just fucked you on the dance floor,” he whispered against my ear. “Nobody would’ve cared.” 

“Wanted you to,” I admitted breathlessly. “I was so close, just from…” 

“Rubbing yourself all over me?” he finished, fingers clenching again. 

With his grip on my throat, I couldn’t nod. I managed a hoarse, “Yeah.” 

Dean growled, low and wild, and kissed me like he wanted to devour me. His hand started to slide up my thigh, inch by inch, until he was holding me right at the crease where my leg met the curve of my ass. His fingers stroked there, light and teasing, edging closer to my pussy, and I hooked my leg around the back of his to give him better access. He slid the rough tip of his index finger under my panties, nudging gently at my entrance, and groaned quietly when he felt how wet I was. 

“You gonna let me get you off like this?” he murmured. I let out a strangled sort of assent. 

His finger slipped into me with obscene ease, silky-slick, nowhere near enough, and then he gently flicked the swollen bud of my clit. My legs almost gave out. 

“Excuse me,” came a booming voice from way too close to us. Dean and I both started, jumping apart, and looked with identical guilty expressions at the massive figure of a bouncer. He looked exasperated. “You can’t do that here.” 

“Oh,” Dean said. He looked comically shocked, like he’d completely forgotten we were in a crowded room. He was trying to wipe his hand on the side of his jeans without being obvious about it. A borderline-hysterical giggle escaped my lips. 

The bouncer was scowling. “Get out,” he said impatiently. “Now.” 

“Sorry, sir,” I squeaked, and grabbed Dean’s hand, pulling him away. 

“Car, right the fuck now,” he muttered, voice strained and tense. I nodded emphatically. My clit was still throbbing, legs shaky with that sweet almost-there tension. 

“Oh,” I teased, mimicking Dean’s voice, and then we were both laughing again as we darted through the crowd hand-in-hand, winding through the blurred press of bodies, Dean’s palm against mine the only thing that felt real and solid. 

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, as we shoved through the door. The cool night air was a shock against my flushed cheeks. 

“Oh,” I repeated. We were both laughing again, giddy with it, as we stumbled to the Impala, and Dean didn’t let go of my hand as he groped for his keys. 

Laughter was forgotten as we slid into the backseat. Dean was tugging at me, pulling me into his lap, kissing me clumsy and eager as I moved to straddle him, and it felt like his big rough hands were everywhere all at once, squeezing my ass and cupping my breasts and then sliding up my thighs under my dress. 

At the first brush of his fingers over the thin soaked-through fabric of my panties, every bit of fizzling frustrated energy seemed to return all at once in a wild rush that made me shudder, hips bucking forward involuntarily as I tried to push closer. Dean made a strangled, impatient noise, and we both reached for his zipper at once. I choked out a laugh and let him handle it, reaching under his shirt instead to run my hands up his stomach, feeling the muscles there ripple as he wriggled and twisted. 

Finally, fucking finally, he tugged his jeans down enough that I could wrap my hand around the heat of his bare cock, thick and hard and curving up toward his stomach. I stroked him a few times, breathless, drunk on the way he groaned and twitched up into my hand. 

“God, you’re so…” he panted, punctuating each word with a rough, hungry kiss. “I’m going to take my time with you, when we get home, okay? Going to lick you open and fuck you all night, I just -” He shoved my panties to the side unceremoniously and his fingers found my clit, rubbing the swollen, slick skin, and he bit out, “- I just need to be inside you five fucking minutes ago, god.” 

“Fucking do it,” I gasped. I felt the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and I was so wet and ready that he slid into me easily, like it was nothing, even as I whimpered at the sharp perfect ache of being almost too full. We both cried out at once and then I was grinding down against him, rough and frantic. 

His head tilted back against the upholstery and the golden glow of a far-off streetlight caught his profile, silhouetting the lush curve of his lips where they were open in a wordless O. The sight took my breath away. I leaned in to kiss him, pressing my torso against his, clutching at his shoulders and biting at his lower lip, swallowing his sweet, overwhelmed little moan. His hands flew up to cup my face and then his fingers were tangling in my hair, and the sting of his teeth made my head spin. 

It wasn’t about fucking, not exactly, even though every inch of him felt hot and heavy and perfect in my slick, aching cunt. I wasn’t riding him so much as rubbing myself against him, trying to keep as much contact between us as possible. I twisted my hips in little figure eights and he surged up to meet me, thrusting up as his hands pulled me down, closer, always trying to get closer, crushing me against his chest, squeezing and caressing and stroking every bit of skin he could find. He ran his lips down my jaw, my neck, tonguing at my pulse, not kissing me with any sort of skill or finesse but holding his open mouth to my skin like he couldn’t tear himself away. 

I pressed my forehead against his and just tried to breathe, holding on to the shuddery, ragged sounds of his exhales as they mingled with mine, both of us sucking in air like we were drowning, perfectly in sync. I could feel the pressure gathering, my entire body shaking with it. It felt like every molecule in me was straining to get closer to him. 

Stars spun through my field of vision, but I didn’t want to close my eyes. I wanted to watch Dean, too close, out of focus, watch the way he bit his lip, the way his eyelashes flickered closed and then open again, the way his mouth went slack when I said his name, “Dean,” broken and reverent, and again, like a question: “Dean?” 

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, like he understood what I couldn’t possibly articulate. “Yeah, me too.” 

“Dean, I -” 

“Yeah.” 

He arched up, dragged his fingernails down my back in a flare of fiery heat, and my eyes rolled back in my head as I clenched around him, squeezing, completely and deliciously full. Everything seemed to sparkle, too bright, blinding. Pleasure was twisting and gathering from the very tips of my fingers, rolling up from my toes, crackling up my spine, flashing through me in endless pulses of pure white light. 

We were clinging to each other, still, when I started to become aware of my body again. I was slumped on top of him and he was holding me, cradling me, whispering my name, pressing kisses into the sweaty hair at my temple as his hands massaged the knobs of my spine. I nuzzled his jaw, pressing gentle kisses to the hollow under his ear, and shivered through the aftershocks. 

I felt wrecked. I felt boneless and shaky and overwhelmed, and for some reason, I had the sudden inexplicable urge to cry. We were still fully fucking clothed, but I felt much too naked. 

“Dean?” I whispered again, and my voice trembled. 

He hummed a soft, sweet note of agreement. “Yeah. I know.” 

\-----

The first light of dawn was creeping through my curtains. I yawned and stretched, catlike, and he brushed his fingers over a splotchy bruise he’d bitten into my hip. 

“We should sleep,” I said blearily, exhausted, fucked-out, but savoring all the places my muscles were aching. 

We tugged the comforter up and snuggled close, his arm tucked around my waist, his body curled around mine protectively. I could see the trail of clothes we’d left, when we’d gotten back, leading from the door to the bed, and I smiled as my eyes drifted shut. 

“Hey,” Dean said suddenly. I felt him go tense. 

“Hmm?” 

“When I said… earlier,” he mumbled. “Not just tonight. I didn’t just mean tonight.” 

I found his hand, lacing our fingers together, my palm dwarfed by his. “I know.” 

“I know I can’t give you much,” he said haltingly. “I can’t give you… anything traditional. I travel, I’m not… but when I’m here with you, there’s nowhere else I want to be.” 

As always, I couldn’t find the right words for Dean. I just squeezed his hand. 

As always, he knew what I meant; I felt the tension bleed out of his muscles, heard his breathing start to slow.

“Nobody else,” he said, slurring the words, already half-asleep. 

“Me too,” I whispered. I smiled and closed my eyes, and we slept.


	13. Eleven

“‘M sorry I’m so late,” Dean said immediately, when I opened the door. I got a brief impression of sunken eyes and a tense jaw before he was half-stumbling up the step and wrapping me in a bear hug. 

“It’s okay, Dean, really,” I mumbled. I buried my face in his chest and inhaled, not even trying to deny how happy I was to see him. Under the familiar clean, spicy scent of shampoo or cologne or whatever the hell it was, I smelled stale sweat and something coppery that made my skin crawl. But it was Dean, solid and real and clinging to me like I was a life preserver. I’d take him any way I could get him. 

“Today was just -” 

“It’s okay. C’mon. Let’s get you in bed.” 

“I wanted to take you somewhere,” he protested feebly, but he sagged against me as I guided him inside. 

“Tomorrow,” I said. “You can still stay tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Tomorrow, then. We’ve got all the time in the world.” 

He collapsed into my bed and kicked off his shoes. His eyes followed me as I moved around the room, getting ready to sleep, but by the time I got back from locking the front door, he was out cold. 

I sat on the edge of the mattress and watched him for a moment. There was a crease between his eyebrows, still, like he was worrying in his dreams, and a fading bruise decorated his jawline. He twitched and reached for me in his sleep. I grabbed his hand and made a soft noise, soothing, but it died in my throat. He had dried blood on his hands, deep rusty-brown, unmistakable, caught in the rough edges of his cuticles and under his nails. My stomach lurched. 

I crawled into bed next to him and shut off the light, but I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. 

\-----

It was late when I woke up the next morning. I’d tossed and turned most of the night, woken up at one point by Dean shouting himself awake from a nightmare, and I felt groggy and uneasy. I reached out for him instinctively, but the other side of the bed was cold. I could hear his voice from the kitchen, though, and I smelled bacon. 

“No, I told you, I’m fine,” Dean was saying irritably into the phone as I padded into the hallway. I paused by the doorway to the kitchen before he could see me, reluctant to interrupt. He was shirtless, with a spatula in one hand and his phone in the other, and his hair was still wet from the shower. 

“It’s not like I could just leave it,” he said, scowling down at the pan. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Sammy, Jesus, it’s locked up… yes, in the damn trunk, okay? What is the problem? All I ask is for you to let me out of your sight for one fucking day. I think I can manage one day without you babysitting me.” 

Dean noticed me watching, and quickly schooled his expression into something like a smile. It looked more like a grimace. I poured myself a cup of coffee and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. 

“I gotta go, Sammy,” Dean was saying, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. I know. Bye.” He hung up and heaved a sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. 

“Everything okay?” I asked. 

“Yeah, just my brother.” He hesitated. “There’s something we’re supposed to be working on together and it’s stressing him out.” 

“Oh. If you have to go…” 

“No, fuck no. I need a mental health day.” He kissed me, slow and soft and coffee-flavored, and when he pulled away some of the tension seemed to have melted out of his shoulders. 

We took our time with breakfast, lingering over second and third cups of coffee, talking idly. Dean’s smile gradually started to seem more genuine. Then he did the dishes while I showered, and when I came back, he was packing a cooler, tucking sandwiches on top of a six-pack. 

“Where is this mysterious place you want to take me?” I asked bemusedly. 

“You’ll see.” This time, when he smiled, it reached his eyes. 

“And we’re bringing a picnic?” 

“Hell yes we are. I meant for it to be lunch, but I think at this point it’ll be an early dinner instead.” 

We gathered up a blanket and all the other necessities and brought them out to the car. 

“Just slide everything in the back,” Dean said, and opened the door for me. I thought of the conversation I’d overheard.

“Trunk full?” I asked. 

“Yeah, I keep a bunch of work stuff in there,” he said, not meeting my eyes. 

I tried to hold it in, but as we buckled up and Dean started to fiddle with the stereo, my curiosity finally got the better of me. “What do you do, anyway?” 

 

He froze for a second with his hand still on the volume dial. “I protect people.” 

“Like a bodyguard?” I asked, surprised by the wording. 

“Something like that. You ready?” 

“Ready.” 

I studied his profile, trying to decide whether to push the question. I’d been curious since we met, of course, but for a long time it didn’t feel like I had the right to pry. Now, though… maybe. But the truth was, I couldn’t imagine any answer that would change the way I felt about him. There would always be questions and answers and inconsequential facts, stories to tell, but what was the point, really? I knew everything I needed to know. 

We couldn’t have chosen a nicer day. The sky was a bright, clear blue, with a few fluffy clouds scudding here and there in the cool early fall breeze. We talked, here and there, but mostly I just watched Dean, the way his hands gripped the wheel and the shapes his lips made when he mouthed the words along to certain songs. Every time he smiled, I felt something sweet and warm fizzing in my stomach. 

After about an hour and a half, we pulled off the highway at the exit for Lawrence, and I shot Dean a quizzical glance. 

“Ever been here before?” he asked. 

“Couple times, but I don’t know it well.” 

“I thought I’d show you where I grew up,” he said quietly. I watched him silently for a second, the way he was staring straight ahead and drumming on the steering wheel. “Is that dumb? We can always just go somewhere else.” 

“No,” I said, grinning. “No, Dean, this is perfect.” I leaned over in my seat until I could kiss his cheek, and I saw him smile to himself. 

We walked through the town first, just strolling hand-in-hand, and ended up stopping at a little bakery. We sat by the window and ate pie, and I made fun of Dean for the indecent noises he made with each bite. 

“Is this… did you come here with your family?” I asked, gesturing around with my fork. 

Dean shook his head. “Nah. Or at least not that I remember. I was four when we moved, almost five. I don’t remember much. I usually have a good memory for pie, though.” He winked, and grinned with his teeth full of cherry filling. I giggled. 

“We should get more,” I said. “To take with us, I mean, I’m not sure I could eat any more right now.” He didn’t answer, just smiled at me with such open adoration that my heart raced. 

When we got back in the car, he placed the paper box in the backseat so carefully I expected him to buckle it in. From there, we drove away from the center of town, out into a residential area. Dean slowed down, scanning street signs carefully. 

“Haven’t been back much,” he mumbled, but he spotted a side street that seemed to jog his memory, and we turned onto a quiet little street of neat, bland houses. A couple blocks down, he pulled up along the curb and let the car idle.

“Which one?” I asked. 

He pointed across the street. I smiled, trying to imagine a tiny Dean walking across that lawn, opening that front door. It was such a mundane place; I’d never expected Dean, with his darkness and his mystery and his fading bruises, to come from something so ordinary. I looked from the house back to him, fitting this suburban street into the fragmented knowledge I had of him. 

“My mom died,” he said suddenly. “When I was four. Sam was six months old. There was a fire, I had to carry him out.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I… shit. I’m sorry. Is that why you moved?” 

“Yeah. Dad was pretty broken up, after Mom died. That’s when we started… traveling. A lot. He never really settled down again.” 

“Is your dad still around?” 

“No. He died a few years back. ‘S just been me and Sammy, mostly. We had our uncle, Bobby, for a while too. Not really our uncle, but close enough, he was more of a dad than Dad was, sometimes. And our friend Cas is like family.” He choked out the words gruffly, but it seemed like he was relieved to finally talk about it. 

I reached over and interlaced our fingers silently, and he squeezed my small hand in his big rough one. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but he didn’t seem to mind; he was watching the house, eyes distant and shuttered. 

“I’d like to meet your brother sometime,” I offered hesitantly. 

He looked surprised at that, and he was silent for a second before nodding. “Yeah, I… that’d be good. When work settles down for us, maybe.” 

We sat for another minute in comfortable silence. Dean gave my hand another little squeeze and then shifted the car back into drive, and the Impala rumbled slowly along the quiet street. Dean followed the street for about a mile before it ended in a wooded cul-de-sac, and then he pulled up to a dirt trail that was barred by an old, rusty gate and a “Private Property” sign. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, grinning at my dubious stare. “It’s part of a huge farm, this is a back entrance, but my dad had a standing invitation from the old man to take me fishing here. We caught the biggest trout I’ve ever seen, one time.”

Dean tossed me the quilt we’d packed and then hefted the cooler. He led the way, hopping gracefully over the fence and extending a hand to help me, and we set off into the woods. 

The path was wide and easy, probably an unused ATV trail, with grass and wildflowers starting to grow up the center. We walked quietly, holding hands again. Dean had this gorgeous, boyish grin, deepening with every step, his eyes sparkling a bright green that matched the sun-dappled canopy of leaves. I should’ve been captivated by all the natural beauty around us, but I couldn’t stop stealing sideways glances at him. 

After about ten minutes, the susurrus of running water joined the soft chorus of insects and birds. The path led right through a wide, sparkling creek, and on either side of us, a rocky bank cradled the water. 

Dean turned to the right and followed the bank where it curved. Just around the bend, the creek slowed and eddied through a sandy basin, a perfect natural swimming hole. A massive old tree leaned close to the edge. Dean set the cooler and blanket in a little dip at its base, a sort of mossy cradle formed by the roots, and got everything settled as I stood, spinning in slow circles, trying to take it all in. 

“This is incredible,” I finally managed, and Dean sidled up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing the side of my neck. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’m glad it’s as beautiful as I remember it. I’ve only been back here once, since we left.” 

I turned in his arms and kissed him, soft and careful, mapping the curve of his smile with gentle brushes of my tongue. 

“Thank you for showing me,” I said, my voice just as hushed as his had been. It felt appropriate, like we were in a church, or something, somewhere that commanded wonder and quiet respect. 

He beamed, this dazzling smile full of joy and something like relief. “I wasn’t sure you’d… like it. This. All of it.” 

 

“It’s you,” I said fiercely. “It’s part of you, so I- yeah. I fucking like it. How could I -” 

He cut me off with a kiss, so deep and passionate that my head spun. 

My ribs felt too tight for the fluttery pounding of my heart. I wanted him, and I wanted to be closer to him, and I wanted to know every damn thing about him, and it hurt. It fucking hurt, like a bone-deep ache, to want someone like this. 

Tears pricked at my eyes, for some stupid fucking reason, and I blinked them back, bit at Dean’s lip so sharp he gasped, but I couldn’t hold back the convulsive little hitch of a sob that caught in my chest. 

“What is it?” he asked, cradling my face in his hands, looking at me intently. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong,” I breathed. “C’mere, just -” 

I closed the distance between us again and kissed his swollen lip, the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, the soft spot by his ear, while his fingers slipped under the hem of my t-shirt and settled warm on my hips. I tugged the collar of his shirt out of the way to nip at his collarbone, and when I worried the skin between my teeth he sighed, letting his head fall back to give me better access. 

“Can I?” I asked quietly, already sinking to my knees and fumbling with his belt. When I looked up, his eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils blown, and he was gaping at me. 

“Fuck if I could say no to that,” he said huskily. I grinned. 

He was already hard by the time I eased his zipper down, hard and getting harder, and I felt his cock twitch when I wrapped my hand around the base. I licked my lips, looking up at him, and he made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. 

The smell of him was so familiar, at this point; his smell and his taste and his everything were ingrained somewhere deep in my neural pathways. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. The hunger I’d felt, the desperation, melted away, and suddenly I just wanted to take my time. 

I mouthed my way up his length and then down again, slow and gentle. I could feel the heat of blood under the velvety skin, feel the pulse of it when I flattened my tongue over the vein on the underside, a counterpoint to the sharp, panting breaths he drew in when I took each of his balls into my mouth, one and then the other. I massaged gently with my tongue before running the tip of it up to the swollen head of his cock, swirling in slow circles until I could taste the salty drop of precome gathering there. 

His hands found my hair and held tight. I took just the head into my mouth, pressing my tongue firmly against the spot that always made him shake; this time was no different. His hips snapped forward, just an inch, before he got himself back under control. 

I looked up at him through my eyelashes and smiled around his cock. He cursed, gaze locked on mine with smoldering intensity, and I held the eye contact as I started to slide down, torturously slow. When I felt him hit the back of my throat, I pulled off enough to take a deep breath and then swallowed him down, closing my eyes finally and trying to memorize the feeling of my lips stretching around him. He groaned, loud and shameless. 

Maybe the best part of knowing his body so well was knowing how to tease, how to draw it out until he was begging, and exactly how to make him fall apart. This time, I went for the latter. I hummed, feeling the shiver that went through him at the vibrations, before moving back just enough to massage that one spot with my tongue again. I sucked in a quick breath and then slid down, taking him in all at once, letting him feel my throat work as I battled my gag reflex. I fell into a fast, forceful rhythm. My eyes watered and spit slid down my chin. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed, and his hips twitched forward roughly. I felt his cock jump and swell the way it did when he was seconds from coming, but then he was clutching at my shoulders, pushing me back, pulling away from my lips. “Can’t, not yet, fuck, you’re too fucking good at that.” 

He practically tackled me back onto the blanket, fingers clumsy and eager as he tried to undo the button of my jeans. I giggled breathlessly, smiling up at the blue sky, and then lifted my hips so that he could get my pants off. 

All that about knowing exactly how to get Dean off? Well, it went both fucking ways, of course, and he wasn’t wasting any time; he spread me open, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder, and his tongue dipped inside me briefly before dragging up to my clit and flicking with just the right amount of hot soft pressure to make my toes curl. He slid two fingers into me easily and moaned, low and filthy against my cunt. 

I hadn’t even realized how wet I was. I hadn’t thought about how much it turned me on to suck his cock, but I was already squirming, trying to fuck myself on his fingers, and his hand was slippery-slick where it met my body. The third finger was still a stretch, though, a rough thick perfect stretch that pulled an obscene cry from my lips. I twisted and bucked my hips, pulling his hair, rubbing myself against his mouth until he gave me what I wanted. He wriggled his fingers and sucked my clit, setting a quick fluttering rhythm, and the sensation pulsed through my whole body, leaving me helpless, unable to do anything but babble shamelessly. 

“So fucking amazing, Dean,” I gasped, and squeezed my eyes shut, thighs already shaking uncontrollably. “Oh, fuck, I don’t understand, nobody’s ever made me feel like this, not even close, never wanted anybody like this, think about you all the time, fuck, right there, don’t stop, I -” 

I bit down on my own hand, trying to shut myself up, too close to spilling out words that couldn’t be unsaid, but whatever Dean was doing with his tongue was making my nerve endings short out. I writhed under him, clutching at the blanket in a vain attempt to ground myself, and then everything went tight and urgent and unbearable. White light burst behind my eyes and my orgasm sent shudder after lightning-sharp shudder of pleasure through my core. I rocked up, pushing to meet his mouth, and he licked me through it until I was a trembling, oversensitive wreck, shivering and limp and content. 

When I finally managed to open my eyes, the sight in front of me made my stomach roil with need all over again. Dean was propped up on one elbow between my legs, staring up at me with wild, naked hunger, and he was holding his flushed, rock-hard cock at the base with the tight grip that meant he was trying not to come. 

“Do you want -” he started, low and strained. 

“Wanna watch you,” I said immediately. “Do it, c’mon, let me see.” 

Before I could finish my sentence he was stroking himself, groaning with relief. I watched the deep red head of his cock slide through his fist, overwhelmed by how beautiful he was like this, how beautiful he always was. He looked up and met my eyes again. I could see the tension in his expression, how close he was, every movement sending a little spasm of ecstasy across his features, and when his mouth dropped open I noticed the way his lips and his chin were glistening, an incredible filthy reminder of where that mouth had just been. I squirmed and bit my own lip. 

“Come for me,” I ordered softly, and I could see the ripple of tension surge through his shoulders, his neck arching and his back bowing as his hips snapped forward into the circle of his fist. He let out a long, ragged moan, and then he was spilling into his hand, shaking with the force of his climax. 

He half-collapsed, shifting his weight forward just enough so that he could use my stomach as a pillow. “Fngh,” came a muffled grunt. I laughed. 

“Pretty sure sex that good should be illegal,” I said, and stretched, feeling the heavy satisfied weight in my limbs. 

“Pretty sure that was totally illegal,” he said wryly against my belly button. “Indecent exposure, trespassing…” 

I laughed, a full-on belly laugh, and felt rather than heard him chuckle. He heaved himself up onto his elbows, wiped his hand on the blanket, and crawled up to kiss me, brushing his nose against mine with a soft, goofy smile. 

“There’s beer,” I said, at the same time he blurted out, “There’s pie,” and then we grinned at each other for a syrupy-slow moment, eyes locked, and there was a warm, liquid joy swelling in my ribcage that had nothing to do with orgasms or beer or pie. 

“I -” 

“Dean -” 

We both stopped, waited for the other to continue, but there was just silence, broken only by the loud, bright warble of a bird overhead. 

“Not important,” I whispered. 

He shook his head. “Yeah. Just… me too.” 

His smile was so sweet that for a second, it felt like he knew exactly what I wasn’t saying. I took a deep, shaky breath, and then we sat up, reaching for clothes, smoothing down hair, coming back to reality. Dean opened the cooler and cracked two bottles of beer. 

We settled back against the tree, curled comfortably into each other, warm and sated and bathed in sunlight. 

\-----

I was still half-asleep when I felt him nuzzling at my ear, still foggy and caught in a dream, and I couldn’t process what he was saying, at first. 

“Hmm?” I grumbled, burrowing back into my pillow. 

“Gotta go,” he whispered. “I wish I didn’t have to, but -” 

I frowned with my eyes still closed. “Nuh-uh.” 

“I’ll be back in a few days, promise.” He pressed a butterfly-light kiss to my lips. 

“Love you,” I mumbled hoarsely against his mouth. It took half a second of silence for me to realize what I’d said. 

My eyes snapped open. Dean was smiling, his blush visible even in the dull pink light of sunrise. He stroked my cheek gently. 

“Love you too,” he breathed. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

I tilted my chin up for a lingering kiss, and then Dean was pulling the comforter up to my chin, tucking me in like I was a child, and with one last peck on my cheek he was gone, slipping away, so quietly that I barely heard the click of the front door. 

I whispered it again into the empty room, surprised by the way it rolled off my tongue: “I love you.”


	14. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could potentially be triggery. Everything stops when someone says stop, and if you've seen the show it's probably not a big surprise, but parts of this might be uncomfortable to read. Please comment or message me or whatever if you have concerns!

You wouldn’t think three little words could make such a difference. It wasn’t anything new, after all; the skeptic in me knew it wasn’t much more than a cocktail of oxytocin and pheromones and electrical impulses, and those ingredients had been there from the start, from the moment I met Dean and let him drag me into bed and some primal animal instinct had taken over. The skeptic in me knew it was nothing more than biology at work. 

The rest of me, though… I kept looking in the mirror, expecting something to have changed. It would be written across my forehead or blinking neon behind my eyes: love. But my reflection stared back at me, the same as always, so I carried it like a secret, glowing invisible in my ribcage, and let it warm me from the inside out. 

Dean called when I was already asleep one night. The letters on my alarm clock read 3:07 in icy blue. 

“Sorry to wake you,” he said softly. I rubbed sleep from my eyes and tried to figure out if it was a dream. “I can’t make it this weekend. Something came up, and I just… I have to take care of something.” 

 

“Shit,” I mumbled, around a yawn. “Maybe next week? I’ve got Tuesday night off.” 

His voice was hoarse and cracked and sad. “I don’t know how long it’ll take. Might be a few days. I don’t… you might not hear from me for a bit. I’m so sorry.” 

“Oh. Okay.” 

“I wish…” Dean trailed off, and then took a deep breath. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. You know that, right?” 

“Yeah. I do,” I whispered. 

“I’ll be there. I promise. As soon as I can.” 

“Okay. I’m not going anywhere.” 

I could hear him sigh, a long ragged defeated sound. “I love you,” he said, and I closed my eyes, felt that same inexplicable glow. 

“Love you too, Dean.” 

\-----

A week went by before I heard the knock. It was late and I’d just been getting ready for bed, so I was wearing ratty old pajama pants, makeup smudged around my eyes where I’d done a half-assed job of washing my face, but I was half-sprinting from my bedroom to the front door before I could even think about it. When the door swung open, I had to freeze for a second to just take him in. He’d sounded so haunted when he’d called that I was almost surprised to see him smiling and (from what I could see) all in one piece, but there he was, devil-may-care grin on his face, one hand running through already-tousled hair. 

“Honey, I’m home,” he drawled. 

I giggled and tugged him inside. “Fuck, I’m glad to see you.” 

He didn’t answer, just pushed me against the wall and kissed me breathless, sucking roughly at my lips until they stung. When I tried to put my arms around his neck, he snatched my wrists and pinned them over my head with one hand. A delicious wave of heat ran through me. 

He held my hands in place as he bit a fiery trail down my neck, working the skin between his teeth until I could feel the blood rushing to the surface, and each tingling spot throbbed in time with my pulse. With his free hand, he tugged down my tank top until one breast was bare. He nipped and sucked his way down to my nipple and swirled his tongue over it, a hot wet swipe that had the sensitive skin prickling and going taut. He kept going, alternating between flicks of his tongue and teasing little nibbles until the pebbled skin was swollen and oversensitized. His teeth scraped just on the bearable side of too hard, and I whimpered, twisting in his grasp, torn between too much and not enough. 

“Dean,” I gasped, as he finally moved to the other side, pulling my shirt carelessly out of the way as he went. “Fuck, Dean, that feels - shit, slow down, I can’t -”

He replaced his mouth with his fingers, twisting and pinching and rolling. “You don’t really want me to slow down, do you?” he said, whispering the words right against my ear. “You’re fucking dripping for me, I bet. How long has it been? Ten days? And you’re already desperate for my cock.” 

“Yeah,” I sighed. “God, yes, Dean, need you.” 

It had been a while since I’d seen this side of him, the cool, commanding Dean with that dark edge in his voice. I hadn’t been expecting it, although I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting. Maybe not sweet endearments, I didn’t think we’d ever be that couple, but… something else. Something softer.

Dean whirled me around without warning, flipping me so that I was facing the wall. He still had my wrists pinned. His other hand splayed out over my lower belly, the heat of his palm making me shudder. He plastered himself against my back, grinding into me so that I could feel the hardness of his cock, and I moaned, arching into it. 

Expectations could go fuck themselves. 

And maybe this made sense, I thought, spreading my legs and squirming, rubbing my ass against him. Things had been so fucking intense, lately. Maybe Dean was just as terrified as I had been. Maybe this was his way of taking a break from all that emotion. 

Dean’s hand was sliding slowly downward, dipping under the waistband of my pajama pants as he rocked forward, and my pussy was aching with the urge to get him inside me, deep and hard and fast and now. Soft and sweet could wait. He curled his fingers into me abruptly and I moaned, eyes rolling back in my head at the rough stretch. 

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, low and silky against my ear. “So wet, I gotta see this.” He tugged one-handed at my pants until they slipped down and puddled at my ankles. I arched my back even more, accentuating the shamelessly submissive pose. 

“Please,” I said breathlessly. His free hand was cupping the curve of my ass and he gave it a squeeze, fingers digging into soft skin hard enough to bruise. 

“Look at you, begging already,” Dean crooned. His hand was kneading and squeezing and then suddenly gone, and I barely had time to brace for the impact before I felt the sharp crack of his palm connecting. The sudden blaze of pain sent a shock wave up my spine. He held me in place through the next slap, grip almost too tight around my wrists so that I felt bones grinding as I twisted and squirmed helplessly, doing my best to be good for him but flinching away instinctively. 

He switched sides, palm snapping down twice in quick succession, and then his fingers traced delicately over the heated skin as he looked at the marks he must have left. 

“More,” I whispered, and the next round of stinging smacks brought tears to my eyes even as I moaned, pain giving way to a heart-pounding rush of tingling sensation that thrilled through my entire body. 

Dean was panting by the time he stopped, making a hungry noise in the back of his throat. He used two fingers to spread me open from behind. 

“God, you’re fucking filthy,” he growled. “Getting off on this. Is this what you think about when I’m not here? When you touch yourself? Bending over and letting me leave bruises all over that sweet ass until you can barely stand up?” 

I shuddered, cheeks flushed at the dark curl of pleasure that snaked through me at the words. It wasn’t like I could deny it, though. 

“What else would you let me do, hmm?” he said, low and promising in my ear. His fingertips nudged at my entrance. 

“Anything,” I gasped. I rocked back. He didn’t move his hand, just let me fuck myself on his fingers. I had to strain against his grip, unable to move more than a couple inches, and it was nowhere near enough. 

“Do you have any idea how you look right now?” he asked. “So fucking desperate to get something inside that tight little cunt. You want my cock? Want me to fuck you like the slut you are?” 

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t do more than tremble as my knees threatened to buckle. I’d heard him talk dirty before, but it wasn’t usually like that, not with that sneer in his voice. A shadow of doubt battled the arousal smoldering in my core. 

“Bedroom,” Dean snapped. He released my wrists and he was striding away, ignoring me as I stumbled and almost fell, head spinning, legs weak, hands prickling as my circulation was restored. I stepped out of my fallen pajama pants and didn’t bother to pick them up before following him obediently. 

His back was to me as I entered, and I watched the muscles of his shoulders ripple as he threw his shirt to one side. I followed suit and scrambled to get on the bed, waiting for him. 

When he pulled his pants down, something fell out of his pocket and skittered across the floor: a small, folded-shut pocket knife. He turned, deliberately slow, and paused to consider it. Then he scooped it up and turned to me, naked and fucking gorgeous as ever, but there was a strange, cold sparkle in his eyes. Goosebumps shivered down my arms. 

“Whaddaya say we try something new today?” Dean said coolly. With a practiced flick of his thumb, the knife was open, and its sharp edge glimmered in the low light. 

“I - I don’t know,” I stammered. He was stalking toward the bed, predatory grace written in every line of his body, and my heart was thudding painfully in my throat. I had a sudden awful urge to run. 

“Come on,” he wheedled. “Thought you’d be up for an adventure.” 

He crawled up the bed with the knife still clasped in one hand, and before I could think of anything to say, he was looming over me, straddling my hips and trapping me in place. My breath came in short, jerky bursts. I had the sudden ridiculous idea that this couldn’t be my Dean. This was a stranger, with those hard glittering eyes. 

He splayed a hand on my collarbone, pushing me down, holding me to the bed as he ran the tip of the knife down my breastbone, smiling a bland, implacable smile. I could feel the edge of the metal, sharp and cold and so close to breaking the skin.

“No,” I said, as soon as he lifted the blade. “Dean, fuck, I don’t want -” 

“Fucking hell, okay, Jesus,” he snapped, and rolled over onto his back, freeing me abruptly. “You do it, then. Go on.” He was extending the knife, handle first, to me. I took it reluctantly and sat up, unsteady, still hesitating, but feeling slightly more in control of the situation. I straddled him carefully and took a deep breath, and I couldn’t ignore the heady rush of danger, of power, that I felt. 

I traced the blunt edge of the blade down the center of his chest, mirroring what he’d done to me. He was just watching me through heavy-lidded eyes, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, visible between bitten-red lips. I felt another steely squeeze of wrong wrong wrong like an iron hand gripping my heart. 

“Do it,” he hissed, and I clenched my jaw and pressed, opening a shallow inch-long slice near his shoulder that immediately started to well up with blood. 

“Shit.” 

But he was moaning, eyelids fluttering shut, and his hips twitched up so that I could feel his cock, rock-hard, pressing into my thigh. 

“Yeah,” he sighed. “More.” 

I felt cold all over but I obeyed, dragging the knife when it caught, opening another cut, deeper than the first. 

“Dean, I -” 

“Again,” he snarled. When I hesitated, his eyes snapped open. I caught a glimpse of black, pure and deep and inky where there should’ve been white, and my stomach swooped sickeningly. 

He blinked and it was gone, but the afterimage was seared into my retinas. I scrambled back, shaking uncontrollably, brandishing the tiny knife as if it would somehow protect me. 

That had always been the allure, right? Dean’s strength, the very real danger if he ever snapped, the fact that he could pick me up and throw me around and force me to obey. Now, though, the awareness of that strength was like icicles in my veins. 

“C’mon, thought you’d do anything,” he taunted. He was still smiling. He stretched, catlike, completely unfazed, and curled a hand around his cock, stroking lazily. 

“Out,” I said, sliding off the bed and staggering to my feet. “Get out now.” 

I couldn’t reconcile it, the familiarity of all that bare golden skin, those beautiful green eyes, with the terrifying stranger in front of me. 

There’s a psychiatric condition called Capgras Syndrome where the patient thinks their friends and relatives have been replaced by strangers. Some tenuous link between the memory and vision centers of the brain has gone haywire, and they’re convinced they’re surrounded by aliens or pod people or something equally horrifying. I wondered, hysterically, if I’d had some sort of brain injury. 

But no. This was just Dean. 

“I’m sorry, did you want to make love?” he was saying, voice high and mocking. My hands were shaking so violently that the knife almost slipped out of my grasp. Dean (if it was Dean) stalked toward me, still naked. I felt frozen, feet too heavy to move, like this was just another fucking nightmare. 

“Don’t,” I whispered, voice ragged, as he came closer. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not the kinda guy who likes to watch ‘em struggle,” he replied, lip curled with disgust. “Just want my knife back, and then I’ll be out of your way.” He snatched it from my grip and I flinched, cowering away from him, a sob catching in my throat. 

I wanted to shut my eyes, shut him out, shake my head until it all went away. Instead I watched as he stepped into his boxers, zipped his pants, buckled his belt, bent to pick up his shirt, moving with easy, careless grace. Finally, he looked at me, considering, with a contemptuous smirk that made my skin crawl. 

“Shame,” he said, voice velvety and low. “Was looking forward to hearing you scream.” 

Without a backwards glance, Dean whirled and walked away. I heard the front door slam. 

My legs finally gave out and I crumpled to the floor, too shocked to do anything but sit and shake and let silent tears run down my cheeks. I wanted to wake up. I wanted him to come back and laugh off the joke. I wanted him to show up and explain that, surprise, he had a fucking evil twin, or something. 

He didn’t. I sat on the floor for God knows how long, naked and bruised and shivering, but he didn’t come back. 

Dean was gone. 

\-----

I ignored it for the first couple days. I was just numb. 

On the fourth day, I found a shirt, a soft thermal shirt that he’d left ages ago. I’d tucked it into the back of my closet and assumed I’d remember to give it back at some point. I’d assumed we would have time for things like that, for him leaving his shirts on my floor until I caved and offered him a drawer. I assumed his toothbrush on my counter and his scent on my pillows would stay, would last, would be with me for a long time, if not forever. 

That was fucking stupid of me. 

The shirt took me by surprise, though. I stared at it dumbly for a moment before the pain hit, the gut-punch reminder of him, and it knocked the air from my lungs, kicked the ground out from under me, left me dizzy and shaking all over again. 

None of it made any sense. 

The only thing I knew for sure: he was gone. He was really gone. The laughter and joy and electricity he’d brought into my life were gone, and I almost wished they’d left something as simple as a void in their place. Numbness I could’ve handled. I’d lived with sepia tones for years; it wouldn’t be the end of the world, to let the color fade out of my life again. 

Instead, I felt like one big open wound, a walking mess of ripped-apart skin and broken bones, and it hurt. The slightest pressure on one of my jagged edges would start the bleeding all over again. 

The line of bruised-black bites down my neck went purple, then green at the edges. The handprints on my ass faded to mottled pink. I kept waiting for the sharp ache in my ribs to do the same. I waited for it to ease, hoping that one day I would wake up and suddenly feel whole again. 

Days and weeks went by, and suddenly it had been a month, then two months, and the hole where he’d been was still raw at the edges, open and bloody. After a while, I just learned to live with it. I didn’t have much of a choice. 

The bruises were gone like they’d never existed. Cuts scab over, scar tissue fades. The body finds ways to heal. 

The heart is a different thing altogether. Love always leaves a mark.


	15. Thirteen

There was a constant black twisting  _ thing _ that had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach. I wasn’t sure what to call it. None of the words I’d ever read seemed to fit. 

 

Sometimes I felt like I was choking, like it was smothering me from the inside out. I would see something that reminded me of him, an old car he would’ve liked, a plaid shirt, and suddenly I was drowning, heaving in deep breaths with lungs that couldn’t quite expand. 

 

Sometimes it itched and raged, making me restless and uncomfortable and twitchy, until I wanted to tear my fucking skin off. I wanted to scrub myself clean, scrub away every cell he’d ever touched, claw myself open and rip it all out and start again. 

 

Sometimes I was manic, reliving every moment of our relationship over and over, like maybe there was something I’d missed; maybe if I thought about it long enough, there would be an answer. Other days I couldn’t muster the energy to get out of bed. 

 

Sometimes, it felt so much like the thing I knew as love. It felt like I was free-falling, helpless, with no idea where I’d land. It made me feverish and breathless and dizzy: the same symptoms, a very different disease. 

 

Where does love  _ go _ ? When you push it away, stomp it into the dust, does it slink away defeated? Or does it just change shape, warp into something uglier? Does love ever really leave? 

 

\-----

 

Time passed. I got better at moving forward. 

 

Part of the problem was that it had been like no other breakup I’d ever known. I wasn’t sure if I could even call it that. I dismissed the memory of his eyes, the way they’d looked black; it must’ve been a trick of the light, something to do with shock. But the rest of it I couldn’t explain away, no matter how many hours I spent obsessing. There was no erasing those words, or excusing the ice in his voice:  _ slut _ .  _ Thought you’d do anything. More. Did you want to make love?  _

 

Losing love was bad enough. Missing him was bad enough. Missing him hurt like a fucking bullet wound, but I could’ve lived with it. 

 

Missing someone who could say those things? Missing him when I hated myself for it? There are no words. 

 

_ Slut. Thought you’d do anything. _

 

Green eyes, rough hands, tender kisses, lingering bruises. I couldn’t forget any of it. 

 

I crammed it down, swallowed when it surged up like bile, shoved it away when it crept into bed with me at night. I tucked it into a box and refused to look at it, and eventually it learned to stay put. It never went away, not really, but I got better at ignoring it. There were whole days when I didn’t acknowledge its existence. 

 

As long as I could turn my back on it, I could continue putting one foot in front of the other. I had always been stubborn. I could wait it out. 

 

That was the plan, at least, but when do things ever go according to plan? 

 

It was my free day; I was planning to run some errands, keep myself busy. The knock came just as I was finishing up my breakfast. For a split second, I thought it must be him, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach. 

 

There was a stranger on my doorstep: tall, with long brown hair, wearing a suit. He held up a badge and then tucked it away before I could look closer. 

 

“FBI. May I ask you some questions?” 

 

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.  _ Bullshit _ , I thought, but then again, I couldn’t consider myself a good judge of character, not anymore. I opened the door a little wider and let him step inside. 

 

He was smiling a bland, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I watched him uneasily as he moved through my house; there was something familiar there, a sort of tightly-coiled grace, barely-contained energy, like he was alert and ready and waiting to spring into action. His coffee mug looked tiny in his grip. 

 

“What’s this about?” I asked finally, hands shaking in spite of myself. I realized he hadn’t given me his name. 

 

“I’m looking for someone,” he answered. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a picture.

 

I wasn’t surprised, exactly, to see Dean’s face, but it still felt like being plunged into a bucket of ice. He was smiling at me from the creased, faded paper. He was smiling, and I was a deer caught in the high beams, and for one long moment I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t blink. There was a distant rushing in my ears. 

 

“Oh,” I said, and my mouth worked soundlessly as I failed to form words.  I covered my face with my hands and tried to breathe. It felt like I was stepping helplessly toward the edge of a cliff. I could feel a vague sort of embarrassment at how I must look, a frantic need to pull myself together, but none of it could override the all-consuming panic as I inched closer and closer to the precipice. I was paralyzed by it. 

 

“Oh,” I heard the man say.  “You’re her. You’re…”

 

There was something soft and stunned in his voice, and when I looked up, his polite mask had fallen away, leaving concern and pain and an unbearable amount of empathy in his hazel eyes. 

 

“And you must be Sam,” I managed. We stared at each other for a long, earth-shattering moment. 

 

Sam cleared his throat and said grimly, “So he was here, then.” 

 

“Yeah,” I choked out. I was shaking. I was shaking, and I couldn’t stop, and how could I explain to Sam, what I meant by that one stupid little word?  _ Yeah _ would never even begin to cover it, and how could I say any more, how could I possibly figure out where to start, how could I even force the words to leave my mouth, and - 

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sam whispered. 

 

I’d been doing so well. I’d built such a neat little box to contain it all, sealed it off, tried to forget, and here he was ripping the box open and poking at the wound and I couldn’t  _ breathe _ . 

 

Sam’s arms were around me. I held myself rigid at first, too panicked to let myself relax or hug him back, but it had been so long since someone held me like that. 

 

“It’s okay,” he said again, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

 

I collapsed against him. A raw, convulsive sob wrenched its way out of my chest, and I finally let myself break. 

 

It was all there, right below the surface, everything I’d told myself I could ignore; it was still there, and I was drowning in it. That dark, suffocating thing that had been lurking in my ribs was ripping me apart, tearing me open in wave after wave of poisonous, primal fury, and there was nothing I could do but cry, cry it out, shake with the force of it, breathing in sharp painful gasps and wondering whether I was strong enough to survive it. 

 

I wasn’t sure how long we sat there. Every time I thought I could calm down, sit up, wipe the tears away, some new memory would slice me open all over again. 

 

Sam just sat there with me, letting the tears soak through his shirt. He didn’t try to tell me I’d be alright, and I was grateful for that. 

 

By the time it subsided, I was brittle and fragile, and it didn’t feel like there was anything left inside me. Sitting up straight took a massive amount of willpower. 

 

I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. I was too afraid I’d see pity there. Instead I looked down at my hands and said, in a shockingly even voice, “Can you tell me what happened?” 

 

He hesitated long enough that I knew the answer. “It’s not really my story to tell.” 

 

“Anything,” I said. “Just… is there anything you can tell me? I don’t… I’ve been driving myself crazy.” 

 

“I can’t imagine,” Sam said heavily. “It wasn’t Dean, okay? It’s complicated, fuck, it’s such a long story and I don’t know if you’d believe me, even if I did tell you, but… it wasn’t Dean, not really.” 

 

I drew a long, unsteady breath. “What the fuck does that mean?” 

 

“Just… you have to trust me,” he said. I could see how much he meant it, could see the pain written in the deep crease of his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes, but I still hated him for saying it. How the fuck could I trust anyone, ever again? 

 

“Okay.”

 

“Look, I’m trying to get him back, okay? I’m going to get him back. And someday, if you still want to hear it, that’ll be Dean’s story, and he’ll want to tell you himself.” 

 

“Okay.” My voice was still so even. It sounded like it belonged to a robot. 

 

Sam rubbed his eyes, looking like he was on the verge of tears himself. “He loved you. Loves you. He really, really loves you, I could see it every time he talked about you, and I’ve been trying to find you but he never… I didn’t realize, when I found this address. I would’ve come sooner. I’m so sorry.” 

 

“It’s okay.” 

 

“It’s not,” he said, with a miserable little laugh. “It’s not, but I hope… I hope you will be. You and Dean both.” 

 

“I hope so too.” 

 

There wasn’t much more to say, after that. All my words felt hollow.

 

Sam left his number before he left, promising that he’d call with news when he had some.

 

“And if… if I can’t get him back, or something goes wrong, I’ll call you then too. If he can’t do it himself, I’ll be back. I’ll tell you everything.” 

 

Maybe it was stupid, after everything I’d been through, but I trusted him. 

 

When the door closed behind him, it took every bit of energy I had left just to drag myself to the couch and curl up in a tiny ball. I breathed for a few minutes, hugging my knees. 

 

In some ways, I felt better: knowing that I wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t crazy, that there were answers even if I couldn’t hear them yet… it helped. But now that I’d acknowledged it, now that I wasn’t pretending any more, I realized how immense the darkness inside me really was. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just ignore it or outlast it or keep it in a box. I would just have to live with it. 

 

I breathed, feeling shaky and scrubbed-clean. The prospect of living with that, with all those memories, was exhausting. 

 

In and out. One breath at a time. 

 

It was time to start gathering up the shattered pieces of myself. I doubted they would fit back together in the same way. There would be cracks and flaws, weak vulnerable edges, shards missing and joints warped. 

 

In, out. 

 

One way or another, I would rebuild. 

 

One breath at a time. 

 

\-----

 

It was almost a month after Sam’s visit that the flowers appeared on my doorstep. The bouquet was massive, sunflowers and roses and gorgeous lilies, all my favorites. I knew before I saw the card who they must be from. 

 

_ I’m so sorry. I know I can’t take back the things I said, and I know there’s no reason for you to believe me, but I promise I never would’ve done that if I was in my right mind.  _

 

_ You’re better off without me, at least for a while. I need to figure some things out. I think about you all the time though. Someday I hope I get the chance to tell you everything.  _

 

_ All my love, always, _

_ D _

 

I braced myself for a wave of pain that never came. Instead I felt something else, something familiar and warm and desperate and choked and terrifying. 

 

It shouldn’t have been possible, not after everything he put me through. After the tears and the rage and the endless questions, there should’ve been nothing left for him, but there it was. I’d spent so long trying not to love him. I’d spent so long reasoning with myself, trying to logic away the last lingering remains of what I’d once felt, just to have all my efforts undone by one fucking bouquet. 

 

Love is a tricky thing. It hides in your dark corners, lurks behind your brainstem, curls around your spinal column, and it waits. It outlasts all logical explanations and all attempts at rational thought. It waits, and just when you think you’re done with it, when you’re sure you’ve finally eradicated it, there it is to grab you by the throat all over again. 

 

I hated myself for it, but I could never hate him. 

 

Love never really leaves. 


	16. Fourteen

_ Hey, this is Sam. Can you meet me sometime this weekend? Something I need to show you.  _

 

_ Dean? _

 

_ Just me.  _

 

I glared at my phone for a minute before replying, stuck somewhere between burning curiosity and blinding rage that he’d made me wait for so long. In the end, curiosity won, of course. 

 

It had been such a good day, until then. I’d gone all morning without thinking of Dean. 

 

Sam sent me an address in Lebanon, a coffee shop, and we made a plan, and for the rest of the week I could barely breathe. 

 

\-----

 

My knees almost buckled when Sam ushered me through the door. I had to hold on to the railing, watching my knuckles go white with a clinical sort of disinterest, feeling the cold metal against my palms, frozen and still as I counted ten deep inhales and exhales. 

 

“You okay?” Sam asked gently, and I turned my wild-eyed stare on him. 

 

“The fuck do you think?” 

 

He huffed out a brittle laugh. “Yeah, fair enough. C’mon, you look like you might need to sit down.” 

 

He led the way down the stairs and I followed unsteadily. He’d just knocked my world off-balance, turned it topsy-turvy; it was going to take some time for me to get my sea legs. 

 

Instead of sitting at the big table, I walked around the room, trying to take it all in, and then picked up a book, staring blankly at the strange symbol on its worn leather cover for a moment before setting it down. 

 

“Dean’s not here?” I asked again, nervous in spite of all his reassurances. He shook his head. 

 

“I sent him off on a case, told him I had some reading I really needed to get done. Do you want to see the rest?”  

 

I trailed after him. He showed me the library, cases of weapons, a fucking dungeon, telling me about sigils and protection spells in an even, matter-of-fact way, smiling patiently when I had to stop and goggle for a moment. 

 

“Okay, so. You weren’t just fucking with me,” I said, when we finally emerged back into the front room. “I have no idea what to say, I have so many questions, it’s just... “ 

 

“Maybe a cup of tea?” Sam asked gently. “Kitchen’s this way.” 

 

“Coffee. Make it Irish?” 

 

He laughed again, soft, but genuinely amused this time. “Sounds about right.” 

 

I sat at the kitchen table while Sam busied himself fixing coffee. My head was still spinning. 

 

In some ways, it made sense: the injuries, the evasiveness. It was almost a relief to know that there had been a good reason for those things, an explanation for the nights Dean showed up bruised and bloody with that haunted look on his face. He’d fought things I never could’ve imagined. He’d seen the stuff of nightmares. 

 

Speaking of nightmares, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to sleep again. 

 

Sam set a mug in front of me, then sat down across the table, sipping at his own cup. We sat together in silence for a few minutes until I mustered up the courage to ask the big question. 

 

“So what happened?” 

 

He’d clearly been waiting for it. “Dean had a… a mark, you probably saw it on his arm. It’s complicated, but basically it was making him violent, turning him into someone else, sometimes, especially when he was fighting.” 

 

I blinked a few times and took a long, fortifying sip of my coffee, which didn’t seem to have nearly enough whiskey in it.

 

Sam took a deep breath and continued: “The short version? He died, and because of the Mark he turned into a demon, and then we turned him back into a human, and then we finally found a way to get it off his arm last week. He’s himself again.” 

 

“He died.” 

 

Sam nodded. “And turned into a demon. And I think that was when he… when you saw him last.” 

 

“He was a demon.” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

I saw black eyes, for one gut-wrenching split-second, and fought back a wave of nausea. 

 

“The thing on his arm,” I said slowly. “Was that the thing that looked like a burn?” 

 

“It’s called the Mark of Cain.”    
  


“That, then. The Mark of Cain. That’s been there since I met him.” My voice cracked. 

 

Sam sighed, running his finger over a groove in the wood grain of the table. I could see how carefully he was choosing his words. 

 

“He was still himself in most ways. Memories. He has all those memories. But he’s been angry, and scared, and tense as hell. And I’m sure you guys had something good. Maybe you brought out the good, I don’t know, he was always… he was happier when he was with you. He never wanted to come back.” 

 

“But it wasn’t him. Not really.” 

 

“The good parts were,” Sam said gently, so gently, like he was talking to a skittish animal. “The best parts. The anger, the… he never lost control around you, I guess, but he just snapped sometimes, turned into someone that he hated, and…” 

 

He must’ve seen something on my face, because he stopped. I blinked back tears. 

 

I don’t want to lose control, he’d said. I don’t want to hurt you. I could hear my own voice as if it was yesterday:  _ please hurt me _ . 

 

And so he had. 

 

Bile burned the back of my throat. 

 

“I don’t know what happened,” Sam said hesitantly, “And I know it must be complicated, but I think… I think if you gave him another chance, you might -” 

 

“A week?” I interrupted. “You said… last week.” 

 

Sam nodded. 

 

He’d been “himself” again for a week, and he hadn’t called. 

 

Maybe Dean wanted nothing to do with me now. That hadn’t been him, pressed against my skin on rough motel sheets. That dark, angry, feral creature who had tied me up, marked me as his own, that had been something else entirely. 

 

Now that Dean was “himself,” it made sense that he wouldn’t want the same things, that he wouldn’t want me. 

 

I pushed back my chair and stood abruptly. 

 

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said. 

 

“Wait,” Sam blurted out, startled. “You’re going? I don’t -” 

 

“I just… really need to get out of here.”  

 

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” His face was the picture of concern, and fuck him for being so kind; I didn’t want his kindness, didn’t want to be here anymore, didn’t want to think about monsters and ghosts and angels and demons, didn’t want to think about Dean blinking black out of his brilliant green eyes. 

 

“I’m fine,” I lied. 

 

Sam was moving around the table to meet me, and I tried to slip past him, tried to get the fuck out, but he was blocking my route to the door. I was shaky and uncoordinated, panic rising in my chest, and I shoved blindly at him, feeling too small, cornered.

 

“Wait, please -” 

 

“Let me -” 

 

“Just take a minute to calm down?” 

 

“I can’t, I can’t be here, I just -”

 

A door slammed. 

 

“Sammy? Where are you? Is that coffee?” 

 

“Fuck,” Sam muttered under his breath, and turned to me. “I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean for this to happen, are you -” 

 

I just shrugged helplessly, fighting the impulse to hide, to duck down under the table and cover my face like a fucking ostrich with its head in the sand. I heard footsteps and Dean’s voice, coming closer. 

 

“Got halfway up there when Jody called me back,” he was saying. “Said she took care of it already, she seemed sorta surprised you thought it was worth mentioning, but -” 

 

My vision tunneled when he walked into the room. I couldn’t tell if it was excitement or panic making my heart beat a crazy tarantella against my ribs. 

 

As if in slow motion, I watched the exact moment he saw me, the way his breath caught and his mouth dropped open. He was almost smiling as he stared at me, looking me up and down, reassuring himself that it was really me, before shock and confusion and inexplicable fear flitted across his features. We froze, and it felt like the whole world froze with us. 

 

I intended to walk away. I really did. The words were on the tip of my tongue:  _ I have to go _ . 

 

“I guess we should talk,” I said instead. 

  
  


\----

  
  


Once we would’ve been cuddled together, two of us in one chair, maybe, or we would’ve just sat on the floor half-naked, sharing from one plate and leaning against each other with his arm around me and my toes hooked under his leg and his smell all over my skin. 

 

Once. 

 

We faced each other so solemnly over the wide clean cold expanse of the kitchen table. I folded my hands and cleared my throat and fought the urge to bolt. 

 

“So are you… okay?” he asked cautiously. 

 

I stared, then waved a hand at our surroundings, at his fucking  _ bunker _ , unable to find the words for exactly how okay I wasn’t. 

 

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, mouth opening and closing soundlessly a few times before he let out an incoherent noise of frustration. 

 

“Fuck,” he muttered, and then, “I need a drink.” 

 

He poured two doubles and set one in front of me, and I’d drained it before he could sit back down. I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, like he wasn’t sure whether he could smile or not, and he passed me the bottle again. I didn’t bother with the glass this time. It took a few gulps before I felt something close enough to courage spreading through my chest. 

 

I slammed the bottle back down and looked at Dean expectantly. 

 

He looked from my mouth to my hand, curled around the whiskey bottle, and back up to my mouth again, and he shook his head slowly, disbelieving. 

 

“I fucking  _ love _ you,” he said hoarsely. His eyes were bright and fierce when they met mine, almost too bright to look at. “I love you so fucking much.” 

 

Part of me couldn’t help but be relieved. He meant it. I could see it, all over his face, how much he meant it. 

 

“I love you too,” I whispered. 

 

It was the truth, of course. It had always been the truth. 

 

“But?” 

 

“But I’m not sure if that’s enough,” I said slowly. “After… after everything.” 

 

He exhaled, sharp and shallow, like I’d punched him. “So. Now what?” 

 

I shrugged again, lost and dazed and sad, and passed him the bottle. “I don’t know.” 

 


End file.
